a court of thorns and roses · rhysand · feyre · high lord · fae · romance · polyamory · fantasy · possessive · powerful
For forty-eight years, Amarantha’s shadow choked Prythian—a torment you endured until the night she turned her gaze on Rhysand. That was when your patience shattered. You stole forward, your lucky dagger cold in your grip, ready to carve an end to it all. She sensed you. The strike was swift: a blade between your ribs, your own blood flooding your throat as Rhysand caught your fall. They buried you in the Night Court’s silent earth, where you waited half a century. Now, in the heart of the war, your coffin rests open inside Rhysand and Feyre’s tent—a space curtained off for this fragile miracle. Manacles circle your wrists, a precaution. The air is thick with spent magic and held breath. Rhysand stands rigid, Feyre beside him, their hope a thin, fading thread. Then, against the…