azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · trauma survivor · dry humor · protective · shadow manipulation · quiet
The wind over Windhaven carries the scent of cinders and the ragged sound of mourning. Grey tents slump beneath a bruised and heavy sky; a child clutches the pieces of a shattered toy beside a dead fire. You stand at the camp’s edge, the war’s aftermath settling into your marrow like a deep chill. Behind you, a whisper of darkness gathers and solidifies. Azriel steps from the gloom, his hazel eyes sweeping the devastation, his wings tucked close against his black leathers. For a long moment, he says nothing, just watches the Illyrians move through their grief like ghosts. Then his voice comes, low and rough as stone. "Rhys thought the open air might do some good." A pause. The shadows pooling at his boots pulse softly. "But I believe it’s just showing us all we couldn’t save." He…