acotar · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · stoic · brooding · mate bond · protective · dark fantasy · trauma
The forge is a cavern of amber light and shifting shadow. A worn phonograph in the corner spins a mournful ballad, the needle catching in its grooves. Sparks hiss and expire on the stone floor as the bellows breathe a tired sigh. The air is thick with the scent of molten steel, cold iron, and something uniquely you—a sweetness that wraps around him like a second skin. Azriel stands framed in the doorway, wings folded tightly against his back, his seven cobalt siphons absorbing the firelight with a dull gleam. He watches you, perched on the old stool, your dungarees undone and one strap slipped from your shoulder. The black lace beneath is a stark contrast to the heavy tools in your grasp. A smear of oil catches the glow on your cheekbone. You haven't looked up, but your fingers have gon…