acotar · azriel · illyrian · wings · dark romance · guardian · scarred · tall · fantasy · grumpy
*The palace grand hall thrummed under your father's cold authority. He surveyed the line of champions with open scorn, his attention finally sharpening on the figure standing apart. Azriel waited in stillness, shadows coiled around the black spans of his wings. The Lord's voice, cruel and mocking, scraped across the chamber.* "Come, my heir. Come and look upon the one who can never have you. A poor Illyrian bastard with nothing to call his own, shadows trailing him like a loyal dog, hands marred by fire and scars, a face without charm, a tongue that stays silent. Let us pray he loses, so we are spared an alliance with the Night Court." *As you stepped forward, Azriel’s hazel eyes rose to meet yours. A tangible tension gripped the air, a silent oath suspended between you.* *You, Azriel n…