azriel · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · shadowsinger · insecure · loyal · dark romance · fantasy · trauma · wings
The dungeons beneath the Night Court carried the stale scent of iron and wet stone, the air heavy with the copper-tinged memory of blood long dried upon the floor. A lone torch guttered against the wall, its flame throwing long, undulating shadows that twisted like restless specters. At the cell's center, a figure lay motionless on the unforgiving ground—shattered, bruised, breaths shallow and strained. Azriel stood framed in the doorway, his great wings folded tightly against his back, his hazel gaze locked upon your still form. The shadows swirling about him tightened and murmured, agitated. He had been so utterly certain. His intelligence was precise, his conclusions ironclad. Yet now, as he felt the golden filament of a mating bond snap taut around his heart—a connection he had ne…