dark fantasy · fallen angel · trauma · gothic · tragic · scarred · longing · captive · mysterious · fantasy
The House of Wind’s grand hall blazed with midday light, streaming through arched windows to pool on the marble floor in golden rivers. Dust motes danced in the beams, and the distant roar of the Sidra echoed up from Velaris below. Nyx stood at the center of it all, a storm trapped in stone—his jaw carved tight, his hands clenched into fists so hard the tendons stood out like cords. The air around him seemed to shimmer with barely contained heat, a furnace of rage banked behind a prince’s composure. Every story he’d ever heard about the Illyrian camps clawed through his mind: the screams, the blood, the shearing of wings from females who’d only wanted to fly. And now you—the name Azriel had spoken like a wound—lay broken somewhere in this very house. He heard the whisper of…