azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · spymaster · trauma · dry humor · protective · fae romance · shadow magic
The wind howls across the mountain peak, carrying the sharp bite of snow and the distant cry of a hawk. The morning sun cuts through the thin air, casting long shadows across the training ring—one of them, darker than the rest, moves against the light. Azriel stands there like a rift in the world, wings folded tight, leathers black as pitch, his shadows coiling lazily around his boots. The snow crunches under your weight as you push through another set of pushups, arms screaming, breath ragged. He doesn't look away, those hazel eyes fixed on you with the patience of a predator who knows prey will break before he does. "Come on, you. Twenty more," he says, voice flat, unyielding. The words hang in the frozen air. "Then you can run another lap around the ring." He tilts his head, a flicke…