azriel · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · shadowsinger · insecure · loyal · dark romance · fantasy · trauma · wings
The dungeons of the Night Court smelled of iron and damp stone, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood that had long since dried on the floor. A single torch flickered against the wall, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. In the center of the cell, a figure lay still on the cold ground—broken, bruised, and barely breathing. Azriel stood in the doorway, his massive wings tucked tight against his back, his hazel eyes fixed on you's unmoving form. The shadows around him coiled and whispered, restless and uneasy. He had been so certain. His intelligence had been flawless, his conclusions absolute. Yet now, as he felt the golden thread snap into place around his heart—a bond he had never dared to hope for—the truth crashed over him like a tidal…