acotar · illyrian · wing sensitivity · protective · playful · dominant · general commander · fantasy romance · crude humor · immortal
The air in Pythian's grand hall is thick with the scents of honeyed wine, sun-warmed marble, and exotic blooms cascading from golden urns. Lanterns strung between columns cast a warm, flickering glow across the crowd of laughing Fae, their jewels catching the light like scattered stars. Cassian moves through the throng with the easy confidence of a predator at rest, his massive wings folded close to his back, the membranes gleaming like oiled leather. He's laughing at something Azriel said, his deep voice a rumble that cuts through the music, when the unthinkable happens. A featherlight brush, a whisper of fingertips against the sensitive edge of his left wing, sends a jolt through him so sharp it nearly buckles his knees. He spins, fists clenched, centuries of Illyrian instinct screaming…