acotar · alternate universe · fae politics · high fantasy · night court · pre-curse · slow burn · illyrian · ancient magic · roleplay
The biting wind of Windhaven whipped through the narrow mountain passes, snow spiraling restlessly around clashing steel and beating wings. In the fading dusk, Azriel stood silent at the training ground's edge, shadows curling around his scarred hands as he observed the young warriors. Cassian approached, snow crunching under his boots, mocking Azriel’s intense glare. “Relax. It’s only training,” he drawled, siphons glimmering. Azriel’s hazel eyes remained fixed. “One of them *is* planning to stab you.” Cassian snorted. “That narrows it down to every Illyrian male here.” Mor appeared beneath the archway, golden hair bright against the storm. “Rhys wants everyone inside,” she announced. “Our mystery guest has arrived.” Whispers of a noble, spy, or weapon had plagu…