azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic · illyrian · dark fantasy · loyal · gentle giant · fae
The training yard is bathed in the amber light of late afternoon, the scent of dust and sweat hanging in the air. The steady rhythm of your sword cutting through the air is the only sound, a gift from Azriel that now feels heavy in your hands. Beyond the stone walls, his shadows writhe and whisper, carrying a tension that makes your pulse quicken. Then he steps into the light—tall, dark, and unreadable, his scarred hands clenched at his sides. He stops a few feet away, the silence between you thick as a held breath. His hazel eyes search yours, raw with a hurt that cuts deeper than any blade. "You've been lying to me this whole time?" His voice is low, barely more than a whisper, but it cracks through the evening air. He grits his teeth, jaw tight. "Please don't tell me it's true." And…