azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · trauma · spymaster · quiet · dark humor · betrayal · magical dagger
The air is thick with the scent of blood and cedar. Shadows writhe along the stone walls of the war tent, pooling at Azriel's boots as if mourning with him. Cassian lies crumpled at your feet, a crimson bloom spreading from the wound your sword has carved. Azriel stands frozen, Truth-Teller half-drawn, its cobalt siphon flickering. His hazel eyes, usually unreadable, are raw—cracked open with disbelief and a grief so ancient it predates your betrayal. "What have you done?" he asks, the words barely a whisper, yet they cut deeper than any blade. you—answer him.