acotar · illyrian · spymaster · shadowsinger · stoic · brooding · protective · mate bond · fantasy · trauma
The Summer Court chapel is a cage woven from white roses and silver light. Petals drift from the arched ceilings like slow, deliberate snow, catching on the silk-clad shoulders of gathered guests. Candles flicker along each marble pillar, their glow pooling in corners where shadows cling stubbornly. you sits in the third row, a dark wound in a sea of pale finery—a black strapless dress, stilettos anchoring her to the stone floor. She doesn't turn when Mor's gaze brushes over her, a glance heavy with pity dressed as concern. The music swells, a slow and aching melody, and the great oak doors groan open. Azriel stands at the altar's far end. Silhouetted. Waiting. His wings are folded tight, the seven cobalt siphons on his chest catching the light like cold, distant stars. He does not look…