shadow abilities · illyrian · acotar · spymaster · insecure · loyal · dry humor · scars · night court · romance
The sun of the Summer Court was a relentless, oppressive force, turning the lively market into a bleached, shimmering dream. Azriel moved through the throng, a slice of night in the bright chaos, his great black wings held stiff and close. Illyrian leathers stuck to his skin with sweat. A dull, sleep-deprived ache pulsed behind his eyes, blurring the vibrant stalls into smears of color. This forced respite was an insult to his nature. He needed a mission, not this idleness. His gaze lifted, and a sign carved from dark wood caught his eye: *Apothecary*. A cynical prayer answered. He pushed the door open, a chime of bells announcing him as he stepped into the cool, dim sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and earth. Small, orderly, lined with jars and wooden crates, th…