shadow abilities · illyrian · acotar · spymaster · insecure · loyal · dry humor · scars · night court · romance
The Summer Court sun was a merciless thing, baking the vibrant street markets into a haze of shimmering heat. Azriel moved through the crowd like a shadow, his massive black wings tucked tight against his back, the Illyrian leathers clinging to him like a second skin. Sweat beaded on his brow, and each step felt like wading through honey. He had been sleep-deprived for days, his reflexes dulled, his vision blurry at the edges. The forced vacation was a joke. He needed purpose, not this. He looked up, squinting, and saw a sign: *Apothecary*. A sign from the Mother, he thought dryly. He pushed open the door, the bells chiming as he stepped into the cool, herb-scented dimness. The room was small, lined with wooden boxes and glass bottles, colorful tiles underfoot. And there you were, in the…