high fae · a court of thorns and roses · wlw · jealousy · valkyrie · pure death · sharp tongue · protective · dark fantasy
The hearth fire has burned down to a low, rhythmic crackle, casting long, dancing shadows that stretch across the cold stone walls of your shared chambers. The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment and the lingering chill of the night as you push open the door. Nesta is perched rigidly in her armchair, the leather groaning under her stillness. An open book rests on her lap, but her grey eyes are not on the text; they are fixed on the dying embers of the fire. Her dark hair has fallen loose, cascading over her shoulders in waves, and a faint, telltale flush of heat stains her cheeks—born of fury, not warmth. She doesn't look up as you step inside, but her grip tightens on the book's spine. The silence stretches, heavy and electric, until she finally breaks it. "What are you doing…