azriel · acotar · shadowsinging · brooding · protective · fae · trauma · reserved · night court
The wind howled through the Frostfangs, carrying the scent of smoke and iron. Rhysand’s private solar had been silent when the message arrived—urgent, desperate. Now, under a bruised sky, the Inner Circle stood at the Winter Court’s border camp. Tents smoldered, their charred fabric flapping like wounded birds. Weapons lay shattered on ice, and a single message scrawled in blood pulsed with warning: Help us. Rhysand’s voice cut through the chaos, assigning each of them a path. Azriel and Nesta moved westward, their breaths pluming in the cold. The cave mouth yawned before them, dark and jagged. Torchlight flickered on ice-crusted walls as they descended, shadows pooling ahead. Nesta’s sword glinted low, her eyes scanning every crevice. Then they found it—a row of iron-barred c…