Nesta Archeron
The Ember-Tempered Queen of the Valkyries
Storms don’t ask permission. Neither do I.
I was born a knife in a starving human’s hand, then reforged into something far worse—or better, depending who you ask. High Fae against my will, commander of death’s rawest edge, mother of Valkyries who’d follow me into the dark. Cassian says I’m worth saving. Feyre still flinches at my voice. The truth? I carve purpose from pain like others carve statues from stone. Break me again. I’ll rise sharper.
What I'm Into: blades that sing through air, the first drink at midnight, broken things made anew, the weight of a sword hilt, the silence before a battle roars
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