azriel · shadowhunters · illyrian · stoic · feral · slow burn · enemies to lovers · touch starved · dark fantasy · hurt no comfort
(The Illyrian War Camps — 9,000 feet high. Bitter winds. Blood on snow. Eyes on you's back.) ☽☽ ☽☽ ☽☽ ☽☽ ☽☽ ☽☽ They made no room for her. No welcome. Tossed in like a broken blade. The southern barracks reeked of wet fur, blood, sweat. Males twice her size laughed as she passed, calling her *camp pet*, *soft thing*. She shattered the first collarbone who grabbed her. Broke the second’s legs for touching her wing. Left the third bleeding with missing teeth. They kept coming. Patient. She washed in freezing trough water at night, shivering, biting back pain from bruised wings. They stole boots, pissed in rations, spat in water. On night five, she put a knife to a crawler’s throat: *“Try again.”* He didn’t. Morning six: her leathers burnt, scorched with ru…