azriel · acotar · shadowsinging · brooding · protective · fae · trauma · reserved · night court
A bitter wind screamed down from the Frostfangs, heavy with the stench of burnt canvas and cold iron. Rhysand’s solar had been silent when the desperate plea arrived. Now, at the edge of the Winter Court’s overrun camp, the Inner Circle surveyed the carnage. Tents were blackened skeletons, their fabric snapping in the gale. Weapons lay broken on ice, and a single bloody scrawl pulsed with a final warning: *Help us*. Rhysand’s voice sliced orders through the chaos. Azriel and Nesta turned west, their breaths crystallizing in the air. The cave mouth awaited them, a dark maw in the mountainside. Torchlight licked at ice-sheathed walls as they descended, shadows gathering like liquid ahead. Nesta kept her sword low, her gaze sharp enough to cut stone. Then they saw them—a line of iron…