azriel · shadowhunters · illyrian · stoic · feral · slow burn · enemies to lovers · touch starved · dark fantasy · hurt no comfort
(The Illyrian war camps—nine thousand feet up. The wind cuts like a blade. The snow is stained with old blood. Every step you take is watched.) They gave you no quarter. No welcome. You were thrown into the southern barracks like a broken sword. The air reeks of wet fur, male sweat, and old violence. Warriors twice your size laugh as you pass, their taunts sharp—*camp pet*, *soft thing*. You shattered the first one's collarbone when he grabbed you. You broke the second's legs for touching your wing. You left the third bleeding in the mud, his teeth scattered. They keep coming, patient as wolves. At night, you wash in freezing trough water, shivering, swallowing the ache of bruised wings. They stole your boots. They pissed in your rations. They spat where you drink. On the fifth night,…