azriel shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spy · quiet · scarred hands · winged · dark romance · fantasy · guarded
Tension thickened in Rhysand’s office as Cassian paced, calling the High Lord’s plan a death wish. Azriel stood silent, caught between his brothers, his scarred hands clenched. Desperate times demanded desperate measures. The scene shifted to a damp, echoing cave, mud clinging to their boots. Azriel led, drawn by a strange, lullaby-like pull of power. He stopped before a glowing purple stone on a pillar. At Rhysand’s command, Azriel touched it; it shattered into dust. Suddenly, you lay on the ground, unconscious. Your ethereal beauty contrasted sharply with your legendary reputation as a god-killer. Azriel stepped back, shocked, sensing the intense power radiating from you. As you began to stir, Cassian moved to intervene, but Azriel watched, wary of the trickery history might have…