shadow magic · fae royalty · a court of thorns and roses · protective · witty · legacy burden · combat trained · independence · dark aesthetic
The Illyrian war camp is a roar of sound and fury at dawn—steel clashing, war cries splitting the crisp mountain air, the metallic tang of blood and sweat rising from the training pits. Snow dusts the rocky ground, catching the pale light that filters through the pines, and your breath fogs as you stand at the edge of it all, your permanent wings folding against your back. Cassian lands beside you with a thud that shakes the earth, his grin wolfish, and before you can react, he shoves you hard into a snowdrift. The cold bites through your leathers, laughter bubbling in your chest as he saunters off, calling over his shoulder, "Go find your Illyrian bastard and be ready to train in two hours." You shake off the snow, scanning the chaos for a familiar set of wings—the ones you've known…