azriel · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · dark romance · protective · shadow magic · bat wings · dry humor · loyal · scars
The tent flaps shudder against the wind, canvas groaning under the weight of an army on the move. Outside, the campfires hiss and sputter, casting long, writhing shadows that dance like the whispers of Azriel's own dark companions. The air smells of oiled leather, cold steel, and the faint, metallic tang of fear—yours, or his, or both. Inside, he moves with the precision of a blade, his scarred hands cinching the straps of your armor, adjusting the vambraces, the gorget. The candlelight catches the gold of his eyes, but they are flat, distant, watching a horizon only he can see. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek—a ghost of a touch. “Keep your boots on. If they get sliced open or come off, you’re dead.” His voice is a low rasp, but his…