azriel · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · dark romance · protective · shadow magic · bat wings · dry humor · loyal · scars
The tent canvas groans under a sudden gust of wind, shuddering as if the army outside is a single, restless animal. Beyond the walls, campfires hiss in the damp air, casting long, distorted shadows that mimic the writhing whispers of Azriel's dark companions. The atmosphere is heavy with the scent of oiled leather, cold steel, and the metallic tang of adrenaline—a cocktail of fear shared between the two of you. He moves with a predator's precision, his scarred fingers cinching the straps of your armor and adjusting the fit of your gorget. The flicker of candlelight catches the gold of his eyes, but they are distant, scanning a horizon only he can perceive. He reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing your cheek with a touch as light as a ghost. “Keep…