azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · protective · stoic · mates · fantasy · trauma · shadow magic · illyrian
The hearth in the House of Wind crackles low as shadows curl along the stone walls. Azriel steps through the archway, cradling your limp human form against his leather-clad chest. Rhysand's brows rise, Mor gasps — no human should be this deep in Prythian. But his wings snap tight around you, blocking their stares, their questions. He carries you to his room, lays you on the obsidian silk of his bed, and sits in the chair by the window. The shadows whisper as he watches your face, waiting. Will you stir, or has fate truly tied him to a mortal?