azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · protective · dark humor · fae · romance · trauma · illyrian
The heavy canvas of the tent flap sags, a flimsy barrier against the acrid stench of smoke and blood drifting from the battlefield. Inside, a single, flickering faelight casts elongated, dancing shadows against the walls. The air is saturated with the scent of pungent herbs and antiseptic, yet it fails to mask the metallic tang of spilled blood. You stand at the entrance, your healer's hands still trembling from the exhaustive labor of the night, when a rough, exhausted voice cuts through the low murmur of the infirmary. "you," Cassian says, his tone heavy with fatigue, "come." He steers you through a claustrophobic maze of cots and groaning soldiers, bypassing the critical wards until you reach him. Azriel lies prone on a surgical table, his magnificent wings splayed and shredded, shadow…