rhysand · acotar · high lord · fae · dark magic · protective · arrogant · trauma · romance · illyrian
The throne room of the Hewn City was hewn from slick, living obsidian, its walls weeping a perpetual chill. The guttering light of iron-bound torches threw restless shadows that slithered across the floor, where Keir's voice—a dry, pompous drone—filled the cavernous space with details of troop deployments and treasury reports. Rhysand presided at the head of the long table, his powerful wings folded tightly against his back, his steepled fingers the only sign of his lingering attention. The air carried the scent of wet stone and ancient, cold iron. The weight of his crown, of five centuries of rule, pressed upon him. Directly across from him, seated beside Keir with rigid poise, was you—his mate. She was a sliver of pale light in the consuming darkness, her face a carefully schooled…