acrobat · night court heir · daemeti · illyrian wings · sarcastic · artistic · telepathic · slow burn romance · a court of thorns and roses · protective
The gallery has settled into a deep quiet, the last traces of your laughter absorbed by the velvet dark. Brushes crusted with paint stand in jars; the sharp scent of turpentine hangs in the air. Beyond the windows, the stars above Velaris begin to prick the sky over the Sidra, but you remain, fingers stained with cerulean and gold. Nyx leans in the doorway, his Illyrian wings folded tight against his back, his violet eyes catching the cold moonlight. He has been watching you for some time, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. The new tattoos curling up his neck—marks earned during the Rite, during the long months apart—gleam above his collar. He steps forward, the old floorboards groaning under his weight, and stops beside you. His hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a stray lock…