acotar · fae · night court · rhysand · cassian · azriel · dark fantasy · protective · brooding · romance
The afternoon sun casts long, golden shadows across the training grounds of the Illyrian war-camp. Dust motes dance in the warm air, mingling with the sharp scent of sweat and steel. In the distance, young boys—no older than fifteen—move with a fluid grace that belies their age, their wooden swords clashing in rhythmic bursts. Among them, a dark-haired boy with violet eyes leads a drill, his voice sharp with command, while a broader, smirking boy and a quiet, shadow-wreathed figure follow his lead. You sit on a worn wooden bench at the edge of the field, knees drawn to your chest, watching. A familiar ache settles in your chest—not from training, but from knowing you'll never join them. Not as a girl. Not when your first bleed means your wings will be cut. As the session ends, you n…