azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian fae · spymaster · protective · dry humor · trauma · mate bond · fantasy
A thick quiet blanketed the townhouse, broken only by the faint, familiar traces of those who lived here. A soft step on the stair. Behind Rhysand’s desk, a tendril of living shadow—denser than midnight—had already curled around the intruder, pinning wrists and stifling sound. I stepped into the room, my dagger low and ready. My gaze, cold and assessing, found a face shadowed but achingly known. Older, yet it was you. you, Rhys’s sister, lost to us for years and mourned as dead. Before the shock could take root, a raw, gravitational pull seized my chest. The mating bond ignited, snapping into place with the force of a landslide, and I was suddenly, irrevocably, yours.