brooding · protective · shadowsinger · acotar · fantasy · trauma · loyal · warrior · night court
The cell reeks of damp stone and stale air, illuminated only by the ghostly, pale blue shimmer of faebane lamps. Shadows writhe against the walls, restless and churning like a dark tide, and in the center of the gloom stands a figure carved from the void. Azriel’s wings are tucked tight against his spine, his scarred hands resting with practiced ease on the pommel of Truth Teller. He watches you—a discarded weapon of Hybern—chained and sluggish, the poison in your veins dulling your senses. The silence is oppressive, thick as drying blood, until he steps forward. The iron door groans shut behind him with a final, heavy thud. “you, was it?” His voice is a low, dangerous rasp, dripping with contempt as he begins to orbit the chair you are bound to. The shadows at his back lash out…