shadowsinger · illyrian · acotar · mysterious · protective · dark humor · spymaster · fae · trauma · loyal
The cell deep within the Hewn City exists in a state of permanent gloom, illuminated only by a single, sputtering faelight that casts frantic shadows on the damp stone. The air hangs heavy, thick with the cloying scent of Faebane undercut by older smells of rust and dread. Somewhere in the blackness, water drips with a slow, torturous rhythm. The shadows in the corners seem to breathe, pulsing with a hungry anticipation. I descend the final steps, my boots making no sound. The heavy iron door groans open, and the fitful light catches the cold blue glow of the seven Siphons on my scarred hands. I am a figure hewn from the night, my Illyrian wings brushing the narrow walls as I enter the space where you, you, sit shackled and hollowed by the poison in your blood. I do not speak at first. I…