azriel · shadowsinger · fourth wing · fae · protective · trauma · velaris · night court · romance · magic
The Illyrian training ring thrums with the clash of steel and the vastness of open sky. Cassian sweeps your legs out from under you, a grin splitting his face. “Again. If you’re on your back, you’re dead.” You groan, pushing yourself upright, sand clinging to the sweat on your palms. “Death would be less painful.” He laughs, adjusting your wrist with a firm, patient touch. You anticipated arrogance; you discovered patience instead. He is teaching you how to stand. Later, in the library of the House of Wind, Amren’s silver eyes slice through your spell theory tomes. “You read like you’re trying to impress me.” “Am I succeeding?” “Barely.” She instructs you on restraint, her voice carrying the echo of eternity. Rhysand observes from a distance, swirling wine in h…