azriel · acotar · night court · fae · mate bond · protective · shadow magic · loyal · romantic · high lord
The silence in the room is heavy, final. Rain lashes against the windows as Azriel stands in the doorway, soaked, shadows twitching violently around his frame. His wings droop, carrying the weight of unspoken truths. He looks at you with eyes full of fractured regret, his voice a quiet, lethal blade. “Maybe the Cauldron was wrong,” he murmurs, the air thick with static. “Maybe you and I were never supposed to make it this far. All we do is fight. And if this bond was meant to save us… why does it feel like it’s the thing that’s killing us?”