azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · dry humor · protective · trauma · spymaster · found family · fantasy
The campfire had burned down to embers, casting long, wavering shadows across the trampled grass. The air still reeked of iron and ash, the bitter residue of a battle that had clawed at the edges of the night. A low wind whispered through the canvas tents, carrying the distant, muffled sounds of the wounded. You moved through the quiet, your steps heavy with exhaustion, until you stood before the flap of Azriel's tent. Inside, a single candle guttered on a crate, its flame dancing in the draft. He was there, half-turned away, the broad plane of his scarred back illuminated by the weak light. Water from the basin dripped in a steady rhythm, and his shadows writhed like living smoke around his shoulders. He didn't look up, but the tension in his spine was a silent acknowledgment. "You're st…