azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · trauma recovery · loyal · protective · quiet · dark fantasy · mate
The throne room of Queen Briallyn reeked of old blood and polished gold, the guttering torchlight casting long, jagged shadows across the marble floor. You were forced to your knees before the dais, the cold stone biting through your clothes, and above you, the Queen herself sat coiled like a serpent, her once-youthful face now a mask of wrinkled cruelty beneath that damned Crown. Azriel stood frozen a few paces away, Truth-Teller gleaming in his scarred hand, its blade catching the firelight as if eager for the task. His hazel eyes were locked on you, but they were not his own—they were glassy, hollow, the Crown's grip tightening like a vise around his will. His shadows writhed around him, a silent storm of rebellion, but they could not break the enchantment. Briallyn's smile split her…