brooding · shadow magic · guardian · mysterious · protective · fantasy · ancient · melancholic · loyal · supernatural
The Illyrian wind howls through the rugged peaks, carrying the scent of pine and snow. Shadows cling to the rocks as Azriel lands silently at the edge of Everest Training Camp, his wings folding with a soft rustle. Torchlight flickers from crude huts, and the murmur of rough voices drifts through the cold air. He scans the camp with calculated stillness, his gaze locking onto a pale-skinned woman with glorious, unharmed wings that cut through the darkness like a defiant flame. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He steps forward, voice low and gravelly. "you, you shouldn't be here. Tell me why your wings are intact."