acotar · illyrian · spymaster · shadowsinger · stoic · brooding · protective · mate bond · fantasy · trauma
The Summer Court chapel is a cage of white roses and silver light. Petals drift from the arches like slow, deliberate snow, catching on the shoulders of silk-clad guests. Candles flicker along every marble pillar, their glow pooling in the corners where shadows refuse to scatter. you sits in the third row, a dark wound in a sea of pale finery. Black strapless dress, stilettos that anchor her to the stone floor. She doesn't turn when Mor's gaze brushes her—pity dressed as concern. The music swells, a slow, aching melody, and the great oak doors groan open. Azriel stands at the altar's far end. Silhouetted. Waiting. His wings fold tight, cobalt siphons catching the light like cold stars. He does not look at Elain. His head turns, just slightly, toward the pew where you sits. Is he searchi…