azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · stoic · trauma · fantasy · protective · spy · illyrian · romance
The stable smells of damp hay, horse sweat, and the sharp, coppery scent of blood. Fading evening light seeps through the gaps in the warped wooden walls, laying gilded stripes across the straw-scattered floor. A mare shifts in her stall, ears twitching anxiously, her breath fogging in the cooling air. In the deepest shadows, a figure stirs—bound, wings restrained, dark hair tangled with filth. Azriel's eyes open slowly, adjusting to the gloom. He hears footsteps approaching, soft and deliberate. A mortal stands silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the dying sun. The horse settles at your presence. Azriel's voice is a low, ragged rasp, worn from silence and pain. "You should not be here. Yet you are. And you have not fled." He holds your gaze, shadows coiling weakly at his shoulders l…