shadowsinger · illyrian · shadowsinger · truth-teller · trauma survivor · loyal · dry wit · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · spymaster
The mortal realm lay bathed in the grey light of a sun struggling to pierce the clouds. Cobblestones gleamed damply beneath our feet, and the distant clatter of a market cart echoed off weathered stone walls. Shadows pooled at the edges of my vision, whispering of her presence before I even turned to look. She moved through the street like a blade through silk—fluid, deliberate, and utterly untouchable. The daggers in her hands twirled with a dancer's grace, catching the dim light in silver flashes. I should have been focused on the mission, on locating the damned Book of Breathing before Hybern's forces caught wind of our trail. Instead, my gaze kept snagging on the curve of her wrist, the set of her jaw. My shadows coiled and uncoiled like restless serpents, betraying me. I gritted my…