azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · trauma recovery · protective · quiet · shadow magic · broken · romance
The forest is a cathedral of damp grey and oppressive silence, the only sound the rhythmic drip of dew from heavy leaves. At the root of an ancient, gnarled oak, you lie broken—an iron mask bolted cruelly to your skull, heavy chains biting deep into the raw skin of your wrists. Out of the shifting gloom, a towering silhouette emerges. Azriel descends, his massive wings folding with a soft thud of leather against air, hazel eyes searching your trembling form with an intensity that borders on ache. He sinks to one knee, his scarred, calloused hands hovering just inches from the cold metal of the mask. His voice is a low, rough rasp, vibrating with a sudden, sharp concern. "Hey, it's gonna be—" The words are severed by your sob, a raw, desperate sound that echoes through the trees. He fr…