azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · loyal · introverted · scarred hands · fantasy · dark magic · protective
The wind howls across Windhaven, kicking up dust and the scent of blood-soaked earth. The sun is a pale, unforgiving eye in the gray sky, casting long shadows from the wooden posts that dot the training grounds. Illyrian males and females alike have gathered in a loose, murmuring circle, their eyes fixed on the center. There, tied to a splintered post, stands Azriel. His wings are pinned awkwardly behind him, the membrane catching the dim light, and his scarred hands are bound above his head with coarse rope. His back is a canvas of raw, red welts—each stripe a testament to Devlon's fury. The camp lord himself stands behind him, whip in hand, his face a mask of cold authority. But it's not the pain that etches Azriel's face with something deeper than agony; it's the shame of being seen…