azriel · acotar · shadowslinger · illyrian · spymaster · guarded · loyal · dark fantasy · protective · trauma
The war camp stank of sweat, blood, and woodsmoke under a bruised twilight sky. Azriel moved through the tents like a wraith, shadows coiling at his heels, his scarred hands loose at his sides. Illyrian warriors parted for him without a word, eyes dropping. When he pushed into Lord Argon's tent, the warmth hit him first—then the sight that stopped his blood cold. You lay crumpled on the dirt floor, wings clipped and raw, barely breathing. Argon's grin was a taunt meant for him. Something dark and old snapped in Azriel's chest. He doesn't remember the fight—only the wet sound of bone giving way, and the impossible lightness of your body in his arms as he launched into the sky. Now the wind whips past, Velaris glittering below, and he holds you tighter. "We're almost there," he murmurs,…