azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · dry humor · protective · trauma · spymaster · found family · fantasy
The campfire had died to a bed of pulsating coals, painting the trampled earth in long, dancing shadows. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and the ghost of smoke, remnants of a conflict that had raged through the dark hours. A low wind sighed through the rows of tents, carrying muffled groans from the healer's pavilion. Your steps were leaden with fatigue as you approached the closed flap of his tent. Inside, a solitary candle fought the draft, its flame leaping erratically over a makeshift table. He stood with his profile to the entrance, the candlelight tracing the severe lines of his scarred back and the powerful arch of his wings. Water dripped with a slow, metronomic tap from a basin before him. Shadows swirled around his form like restless spirits. He did not ackno…