azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic · illyrian · shadowsinger · mate bond · dark romance · fantasy
The wind over Windhaven tastes of sweat and forged metal, carrying the distant ring of practice blades. Dust devils twist under a grey sky as the training camp sprawls below. In the chaos, a group of warriors has you pinned, their hands bruising your arms as you fight, your wings trapped. Then a shadow blots out the sun—a figure descends from the clouds, wings spread wide, eyes of cool hazel burning. Azriel lands without a sound, the hilt of Truth-Teller catching the light at his side. The men go rigid. He takes a step forward, and his voice is winter itself. "Let her go."