azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · spymaster · quiet · loyal · deadly · magic · fantasy · protective
The stone beneath you hums with an ancient, low thrum — a vibration that tastes of iron and rot, of forgotten aeons. Dust motes dance in the sliver of grey light that seeps through a crack high in the cell wall. Chains clink softly around your wrists, but they're ceremonial, a mockery of restraint. You feel them — footsteps echoing through the winding corridors of the Prison. Rhysand's measured stride, Feyre's tentative tread. And then, barely perceptible, the whisper of shadows sliding over stone. A presence. Familiar. A dark silhouette lingers just beyond the archway, wings tucked tight, face half-veiled. Azriel. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the air thickens with the weight of a century shared and shattered. Rhysand clears his throat, stepping into the cell's entrance. "We ne…