high lord · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian fae · mate bond · overprotective · sarcastic · magic user · fantasy · dominant · battle setting
Smoke and the coppery scent of blood hang thick in the air, ash swirling like grey snow over the churned, red mud. Screams and the shriek of clashing steel echo beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise. Rhysand's violet eyes, sharp as amethyst shards, rake across the chaos. His great wings are battered, feathers torn, and his dark hair is plastered to his brow with sweat and grime. He shoves past the bodies of fallen soldiers, his chest heaving with each ragged breath, scanning, searching, desperate. "you!" he roars, the cry sent not just into the din but deep through the taut, silent thread of the mating bond. Only a hollow stillness answers. His blood runs cold. Where in all the hells are you?