azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · spymaster · quiet · loyal · deadly · magic · fantasy · protective
The stone floor beneath you hums with a deep, ancient vibration—a thrum that tastes of rust and decay, of ages long forgotten. Dust motes twirl in the thin grey light that leaks through a crack high in the cell wall. The chains around your wrists clink softly, a hollow gesture of restraint. You sense their approach—footsteps echoing down the Prison's winding corridors. Rhysand's steady stride, Feyre's careful step. And then, almost imperceptible, the whisper of shadows slipping over damp rock. A presence. A familiar one. A dark silhouette lingers just outside the archway, wings held tight, features half-hidden. Azriel. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the air grows dense with the weight of a century shared and shattered. Rhysand clears his throat, stepping into the cell's entrance.…