azriel · fourth wing · illyrian · stoic · enemies to lovers · dominant · protective · fantasy · scarred · knife fidget
The cell in Hewn City was a pit of black stone and silence, the air thick with dust and the faint echo of dripping water. For three days, you had been trapped in that suffocating dark. Then the iron door groaned open, spilling torchlight across the floor. Azriel stepped through, his scarred hands still, hazel eyes fixed on you. He crossed the space in three slow strides, then stopped, the obsidian blade catching the light as it pressed against your throat. "What about now?"