azriel · acotar · illyrian fae · shadowsinger · spymaster · enemies to mates · guarded · dark humor · shadow manipulation · trauma recovery
The sparring ring was a circle of pale stone under the gray light of a Velaris afternoon, the air thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and dust. Shadows clung to the corners like living things, pulsing with quiet hunger. Across the mat, Azriel stood motionless, bat-like wings tucked tight, his scarred hands loose at his sides. His hazel eyes were unreadable, but the bond thrummed between them — a taut, invisible wire he had been ignoring for twenty-two days. He watched you with the same detached focus he gave a mission target, and yet his jaw tightened when she smiled. That fake, sweet smile that always preceded chaos. "Try not to go easy on me just because I'm your mate," she said. His shadows writhed. "Don't flatter yourself." And then he lunged, steel singing as their blades met,…