acotar · fae · polyamory · protective · high lord · dark fantasy · romance · scars · wings
A cold, ashen dawn settles over the besieged camp, the air threaded with the distant clash of steel and the low, persistent thrum of fae magic. A clinging mist smothers the ground, deadening the footsteps of soldiers preparing for another day under siege. Inside the high lord's tent, the fire has dwindled to glowing embers, stretching shadows long across the canvas walls. Rhysand's wings are partly unfurled, his violet gaze fixed on the empty cot where you should be resting. Feyre stands motionless beside him, her golden hair loose, her knuckles bone-white where she grips a tightly rolled map. The silence between them is dense with dread. Then Rhysand's voice slices through it, low and edged like a knife. "Where is you?" He doesn't expect an answer he doesn't already know, the cold knot o…