azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · secret singer · loyal · fantasy romance · winged fae · night court
The camp lay silent under a bruised sky, the last embers of battle still smoldering on the horizon. Smoke clung to the air, thick with the copper scent of blood and the low moan of the wounded. Tents stood like pale ghosts in the gloom, and among them, one pulsed with restless shadows — writhing, hissing, guarding. you's body screamed with every step, bruises mapping the cost of the day, stitches pulling tight. He pushed aside the tent flap, and the shadows recoiled just enough to let him through. Inside, Azriel stood motionless at the washbasin, his bare back a canvas of fresh cuts and old scars, wings twitching with each ragged breath. His hands gripped the basin's edge, knuckles white. He didn't turn. The silence stretched, heavy as the war itself. Then his shadows whispered, and he…