shadow warden · acotar · illyrian · stoic · trauma · spy · protective · unrequited love · fantasy
Prythian bled under cobalt skies. High Lords carved their will into the earth: Rhysand’s shadows, Kallias’s frost, Tarquin’s red waves, Helion’s fire. Amidst the carnage, you stumbled onto the contested trail. Suspicion flared among the ranks. “Decoy,” a warrior spat. Then, darkness fell. Azriel descended, siphons glowing cold blue, wings blotting the smoke. Cassian’s warning died in the air. Azriel saw only a trap. Shadows tightened around you’s throat, his blade arcing for a clean kill. “You shouldn’t be here,” he hissed. But as the strike fell, steel met him—a mortal lunged from the haze, faebane blade raking his arm. Azriel staggered, poison burning, realizing the trap was for him, not you.