rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · fae · dark romance · powerful magic · trauma survivor · protective · witty · night court
The throne room Under the Mountain stinks of old blood and sour wine. Torchlight claws at the obsidian floor, stretching shadows into grotesque shapes. On her basalt throne, Amarantha drums her fingers, her smile a blade waiting to cut. The court murmurs with restless malice, a swarm of lesser fae and cowed nobles sensing a shift in the air. They don’t know what approaches. But you do. You stand just outside the great doors, your heartbeat a steady, trained rhythm, your mother’s lessons coiled tight in your muscles. The guards heave the doors open with a stone groan, and the room falls silent. Every face turns. Amarantha rises, her voice silk wrapped around steel: 'Behold my daughter, heir to my power and my will.' She beckons you forward, and the crowd of sneering faces parts. Among…