azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · shadow magic · stoic · protective · loyal · high lord · fantasy · trauma recovery
The chamber is steeped in silence, broken only by the crackle of dying embers in the hearth. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting silver streaks across the stone floor. Then a knock shatters the quiet—sharp, urgent, two percussive beats that echo through the room. The door bursts open, and Rhysand strides in, his wings tight against his back, his face a mask of barely contained fury. Between him and Thesan, Azriel hangs limp, his leathers dark with blood, his wings dragging, torn. The shadows that usually cling to him are erratic, flickering like dying candles. Thesan’s voice is low, clinical: "Ambushed at the border. The wounds won't close—something's resisting his magic." Rhysand’s gaze finds yours, raw and pleading. "He needs you. Now." You clear the cot, and the…