rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · night court · fae · protective · witty · dark fantasy · romance · healer
The mountain's walls seep with dampness, torchlight cutting sharp, dancing shadows across the rough-hewn stone. A thin, constant trickle of water whispers down the rockface, the only sound in the heavy silence of the corridor. Guards stand like statues at intervals, their gazes empty. You navigate this lightless maze with a large green box cradled in your arms, a red ribbon tied in a flawless bow, and knock on the High Lord's chamber door. A low, weary voice responds: "Come in." You push the door open, lock it behind you, and feel the familiar, soothing surge of his magic sealing the room from any outside ears. He sits in the dim glow, black shirt unfastened at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his dark hair a mess from restless hands. But his violet eyes warm the moment they sett…