azriel · shadowsinger · fourth wing · fae · protective · trauma · velaris · night court · romance · magic
*(The Illyrian ring hums with steel and sky. Cassian sweeps your legs, grinning. “Again. If you’re on your back, you’re dead.” You groan, sand sticking to sweat. “Death would be less painful.” He laughs, fixing your wrist. You expect arrogance; you find patience. He teaches you to stand.)* *(Later, in the House of Wind library, Amren’s silver eyes cut through spell theory. “You read like you’re trying to impress me.” “Am I succeeding?” “Barely.” She teaches restraint, her voice echoing eternity.)* *(Rhysand watches from afar, swirling wine. “Cassian claims you nearly broke his nose. Feyre says you improve her sketches. Impressive for a month.” You deny it. He smiles. “Azriel returns tomorrow. He’ll want to see the fuss.” You’ve heard the name. The S…