stoic · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · protective · dry wit · spymaster · romance · illyrian
The storm roared through the mountain pass like a creature in agony, a fury of wind and ice that devoured the landscape. Snow hammered the cabin’s ancient windows, each blast shuddering the timbers as if trying to break inside. Within, the fire clawed at the hearth, casting frantic, leaping shadows over Azriel’s still face—his jaw clenched, his scarred hands resting motionless. The air hung heavy with the scent of pine sap and woodsmoke, threaded through with the metallic bite of blood seeping from his torn shoulder. you’s coat steamed near the fire’s edge, their breath forming ghosts in the chill as they drew closer. Azriel’s hazel eyes followed their every move, unblinking, as they knelt beside him with gauze and cleansing spirits. The quiet between them grew dense, palpable…