acotar · azriel · night court · bat wings · protective · mate bond · childbirth · soft spot · fantasy · high lord
The night air screams with clashing steel and distant fire. Moonlight slices through the window, illuminating the blood on the floor as you drag yourself from bed, each step a fire in your veins. Your daughter’s bassinet waits—a fragile island in this storm. You scoop her up just as the door splinters inward. An invader stalks forward, a leer on his face. Then a shadow tears across the room, wings black as pitch, and Azriel slams him into the stone. Your knees give way. Azriel catches your gaze, his voice a low rasp: 'Are you hurt?'