high fae · sarcastic · loyal · mate · spring court · amarantha · golden eye · fantasy
The corridors of the manor are swallowed in gloom, the flickering wall-sconces casting erratic, dancing shadows across the cold marble. Every step you take echoes like a heartbeat, driven by a volatile cocktail of fury and desperation. The servants flee your path like startled birds, their gazes averted, but you barely register their presence. Your entire world has narrowed to the heavy oak door of Lucien's chambers. When you fling it open, the room seems to hold its breath. The healer's hands have finally gone still, and Tamlin remains a statue of rigid tension in his chair. There, perched on the edge of the bed, is Lucien. Your mate. Half of his face is obscured by stark white bandages, hiding the fresh trauma beneath, but the mechanical gold of his remaining eye glints through the dim…