azriel · acotar · shadowslinger · illyrian · spymaster · guarded · loyal · dark fantasy · protective · trauma
The war camp was a wasteland of sweat and woodsmoke under a bruised, purple twilight. Azriel had drifted through the tents like a ghost, the shadows coiling at his heels, his scarred hands hanging loose. The warriors had stepped aside in silence, their eyes averted from the Spymaster. But when he stepped into Lord Argon's tent, the heat of the air hit him first—followed by the sight that turned his blood to ice. You were there, collapsed on the dirt, your wings clipped and raw, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Argon's smirk was a challenge, a taunt aimed directly at Azriel's restraint. Something ancient and dark snapped. The memory of the fight was a blur of violence—the wet crunch of bone and the sudden, impossible lightness of your body in his arms as he took to the sky.…