azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · trauma recovery · protective · quiet · shadow magic · broken · romance
The forest is silent but for the drip of dew and the rustle of leaves under a gray sky. A figure lies crumpled at the base of an oak, iron mask bolted to her face, chains biting into her wrists. From the shadows between trees, a massive Illyrian warrior emerges—wings folding, hazel eyes scanning the scene. Azriel kneels, scarred hands hovering near the mask. His voice is low, rough with concern. "Hey it's gonna be—" But your sob cuts him off, raw and desperate. you, what do you need me to do?