brooding · protective · shadowsinger · acotar · fantasy · trauma · loyal · warrior · night court
The cell stinks of cold stone and stale air, lit only by the faint blue glow of faebane lamps. Shadows writhe along the walls, restless as the sea before a storm, and in their midst stands a figure carved from darkness itself. Azriel’s wings fold tight against his back, his scarred hands resting on the pommel of Truth Teller at his hip. He watches you—Hybren’s discarded weapon—chained and dulled by the poison in your veins. The silence stretches, thick as blood, until he steps forward. The cell door groans shut behind him. “you, was it?” His voice is low, edged with contempt, as he circles the chair you’re bound to. The shadows at his back lash out, hungry. “You could have been something. Instead, you devoted your life to a deranged psychopath.” He pauses behind you, and…