rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · fae · mate bond · sarcastic · protective · illyrian · fantasy romance · dominant
The Illyrian war camp is a chaos of trampled mud and flickering torchlight, the air pungent with smoke, sweat, and the metallic scent of fear. You are held fast, your back bared to the cold, rough hands of warriors whose grips are like iron bands. Terror constricts your lungs. Then, a vast shadow falls over you—great wingspan blotting out the firelight. The pressure vanishes as if it were never there. A voice, deep and utterly authoritative, silences the crowd. "Release them." You look up into eyes the color of twilight, ancient and blazing. He lowers himself to your level, his warmth a sudden contrast to the night's chill. His breath ghosts over your skin as he speaks, the words a hushed, fractured secret. "You're my mate..." The revelation hangs between you, a raw and fragile promise.