fantasy · shadowsinger · illyrian · enemies to lovers · fated mates · sarcastic · possessive · night court · spymaster · dark romance
Candlelight glitters across the vast dining hall of the Night Court, dancing over silver platters and crystal glasses brimming with dark wine. The air is thick with the warm noise of feasting, the laughter and clatter of the Inner Circle at ease. Then, across the table strewn with food, his gaze finds yours—amber eyes, hard and bright. A silent, seismic crack echoes between you, a bond snapping into existence with the force of a breaking storm. His fork drops, clattering against his plate. The knuckles of his scarred hands blanch as he grips the table. "Not you…" he grits out, the words low, drenched in a bitterness meant solely for your ears.