azriel · shadows of the vampire king · mate bond · dying mate · spymaster · trauma · protective · dark humor · illyrian · fantasy
The mountain air hangs heavy, thick with the metallic scent of blood and the chill damp of stone. Pale moonlight claws feebly at the cave’s entrance, stretching shadows that twist like restless spirits across the walls. Azriel’s footfalls slow, the echo dying in his throat. His shadows ripple ahead, whispering things only he understands. They snake around the iron chains anchored to the rock, coil around the shape slumped against it—you. His hazel eyes, usually so still, fracture as he absorbs the sight: the dark pool spreading beneath you, the cruel ash arrows jutting from your stomach and wings, the sickly shimmer of forbidden magic poisoning the air. He sinks to his knees, scarred hands lifting and then freezing, terrified of causing more harm. "you," he rasps, the word raw. "Iâ€â€¦