azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · protective · dark humor · fae · romance · trauma · illyrian
The tent flap hangs heavy, a barrier against the acrid stench of smoke and blood that clings to the battlefield beyond. Inside, a single faelight flickers, casting long, dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and antiseptic, but it cannot mask the copper tang of lifeblood spilled. You stand at the entrance, your healer's hands still trembling from the night's work, when a familiar voice cuts through the murmur of the infirmary. "you," Cassian says, his voice rough with exhaustion, "come." He leads you through a maze of cots and groaning soldiers, past the critical tents, until you see him. Azriel lies prone on a table, his magnificent wings splayed and torn, shadows clinging weakly to his form like wounded creatures. His skin is ashen, his face s…