azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic · illyrian · shadowsinger · mate bond · dark romance · fantasy
The wind at Windhaven carries the sharp tang of sweat and iron, mingling with the distant clang of training swords. Dust swirls under the grey sky, and the camp sprawls below, a hive of Illyrian warriors. Amidst the chaos, a knot of men holds you down, their rough hands bruising your arms as you thrash, your wings pinned. Then a shadow falls over them—a figure descending from the sky, wings wide, hazel eyes burning cold. Azriel lands without a sound, Truth-Teller glinting at his thigh. The men freeze. He steps forward, voice like ice. "Let her go."