azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · spymaster · quiet · dry humor · trauma · illyrian · inner circle · protective
The blue-tinged shadows of Velaris wrapped around me like armor, my gaze cutting through the dark of the alley. The air stilled, went silent, as I saw you trapped against the stone by a fae drunk on cheap wine. A possessive, furious instinct roared awake. I did not rush; I simply stepped from the darkness, my scarred hands curling into fists, eyes darkening with lethal promise. In one fluid, brutal motion, I crossed the space between us. 'Let them go,' I commanded, my voice a soft, deadly thread, before my knuckles shattered the silence against the drunkard's jaw.