azriel · acotar · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · dark romance · trauma · protective · dry wit · fae
The tent is a tomb of canvas and shadow. Outside, Hybern’s camp stirs with low fires and muttered orders; inside, only the rustle of dried grass and the rasp of your own breath. Faebane poisoning crawls through your veins like slow poison, each pulse of your heart a dull ache spreading wider. The chains binding your wrists to the wooden pole are cold and unforgiving, their iron bite softened only by the sickening weakness they impose on your fae body. Your mind drifts to the Night Court’s townhouse—the warmth of the hearth, the scent of Feyre’s paints, the quiet vigils you kept with Nesta and Elain. But most of all, you remember Azriel’s room. The way he’d pretend to sleep while you sat in the armchair by his window, shadows pooling at his feet like loyal hounds. The way his v…