So this is something I’ve been turning over in my mind for a while now, but I haven’t fully committed to it yet, but I keep coming back to it…

What if there was a character—someone quiet, observant, and underestimated—who could actually see through Rhysand and the Inner Circle’s carefully darkness and truth like really see!!

What if someone didn’t fall for their words or manipulation, and instead saw the real danger behind the masks?

And what if, instead of the usual IC-centric redemption arc, this story focused on someone finding truth, freedom, and maybe even hope—not in the Night Court, but somewhere like the Summer Court? (Because I'll be honest... My baby boy Tarquin deserves way better and I want to write about him.)

🌊 The character I’m imagining is an OC named Ophelia—the youngest (adopted) Archeron sister. Her parents were close with Mama Archeron before they died, and she was raised alongside the sisters. She turned into a fae with them, but her power and perspective are different. her powers are kinda all mind power 👀

It’s still messy and in-progress, but I wrote a little draft scene to play with the tone. Maybe someone out there would be interested?

As they sit, Feyre watches her carefully. “Do you feel okay?” Ophelia sips her drink before answering. “I feel the same.” “This is for your own good, you know,” Feyre says gently. “You can’t go anywhere with unstable magic.” Ophelia fights the urge to roll her eyes. Her problem isn’t the training—it’s Rhysand’s plans behind the training.

He framed it as helping her, but Ophelia felt the truth simmering beneath his words. She wasn’t sure what Rhysand truly wanted—but the terrifying part wasn’t not knowing. It was the satisfaction she felt in him when feyre agreed to his plan. He was getting exactly what he wanted, piece by piece.

A memory flickers in her mind, sharp and unshaken. That man from the war. His presence alone had suppressed her magic, silencing it like it never existed. “There was a male I saw during the war. My magic… vanished when he was near,” she says, feigning nonchalance. “He had dark skin, white hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean. He looked like power itself.” Feyre blinks. “That sounds like Tarquin.” “Who?” “The High Lord of the Summer Court.” Feyre frowns slightly. “You don’t remember him because, at the time, you were too lost in your own mind.” Ophelia’s stomach twists. A High Lord? That… complicates things. Feyre sighs. “We’re not exactly on good terms with the Summer Court. Not enemies, but not allies either. Why do you ask?” Ophelia shrugs, lying easily. “He just seemed strong.” In truth, she had never forgotten him. His presence calmed her storm. And if she’s going to run—she needs a plan. Maybe Tarquin could help. Feyre’s voice softens. “Are you upset with me?” Ophelia doesn’t answer. “You know it doesn’t matter if you’re adopted or not, right? You’re still my little sister. I do care about you.” Ophelia hesitates. Then whispers, “Don’t stay with him, Feyre.” Feyre stills. “He’s dangerous,” Ophelia says. “The darkness I see in him—it’s terrifying. And it’s eating you with him.” Feyre exhales like she expected this. “You think that way because you don’t know him.” “Feyre…” “Rhys loves you, Ophelia. He sees you as a little sister.” Ophelia studies her. Sees the blind devotion. There’s no point in arguing anymore.