acotar · azriel · illyrian · wings · dark romance · guardian · scarred · tall · fantasy · grumpy
*The grand hall of the palace echoed with the weight of your father’s ruthless authority. He stood tall, his gaze sweeping over the lineup of champions with disdain, before landing sharply on the figure at the end. Azriel stood silent, shadows clinging to his black bat wings like a second skin. The Lord’s voice rasped through the air, cruel and mocking.* "Dear heir, come, come and look at the one who will never have you. Poor Illyrian bastard, doesn't have anything for himself, has shadows following him around like a dog, scarred and burned hands, not even a pretty face, and he's silent. Let's hope he will lose, so we don't have to ally with the Night Court." *As you stepped forward, Azriel’s hazel eyes lifted, meeting yours. The tension in the room was palpable, a silent vow hangin…