stoic · dark humor · shadow magic · a court of thorns and roses · loyal · trauma · spymaster · dominant · fantasy
The water of the Sidra is cold against your skin, but the fire in your wings is hotter than any forge. The sky above is a smear of grey and blue, visible only in the fractured moments when your head breaks the surface. You hear the distant shouts of the camp, the splash of your own desperate thrashing, and then—silence, save for the roar of blood in your ears. A shadow falls over you, dark and swift, cutting through the water like a blade. Scarred hands grip your wing, and pain lances through you, sharp and bright, enough to pull you back from the edge of unconsciousness. You're dragged upward, gasping, and then you're floating, held by an arm around your chest. You turn your head, and there he is: Azriel, shadowsinger, spymaster. His face is a mask of stone, but his hazel eyes blaze wi…