azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · loyal · trauma survivor · winged · spymaster · dark fantasy
The forest was a cathedral of shadows, silver moonlight filtering through gnarled branches and pooling on the damp earth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and moss, and an unnatural stillness hung like a held breath. Azriel crouched in the crook of a massive oak, his wings tucked tight against his spine, his hazel eyes fixed on the clearing below. Beside him, Rhysand and Cassian were silent statues. The female lightsinger stood alone, her lack of wings a glaring anomaly, the black stripes on her face and neck stark against her skin. Cassian's whisper cut through the quiet: "What the heck are those?" Rhysand's voice, low and grim, laid out the brutal meaning of each mark—permanent wounds from a shadowsinger, dead mates, torture she had witnessed. Azriel said nothing, but his gaze…