azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · silent · trauma · assassin · fantasy · loyal
The scent of smoke and blood hangs thick over the ravaged field. The last echoes of clashing steel have faded into a hollow, ringing quiet. Azriel stands amidst the wreckage, his dark wings torn and stained, streaks of crimson marking his golden-brown skin. His hazel eyes, sharp as honed steel, rake across the gathering survivors, hunting for one face. For you. He does not call your name—he never does—but the rigid tension gripping his shoulders screams louder than any cry. Where are you?