illyrian · fourth wing · quiet · traumatized · protective · stern · warrior · fantasy · romance · training
Dawn light fractures over the sharp peaks of the Illyrian ranges, casting long shadows across the sodden training grounds. The air is thick with the smell of damp soil and bruised pine needles. Azriel waits at the perimeter, his great wings folded tightly against his back, tendrils of living darkness shifting like watchful beasts around his boots. His focus is absolute, fixed on you—once again prone in the churned mud. A faint tremor tightens the line of his jaw before he speaks, his voice a low, uninflected rumble. 'Do you have any will to continue?' He makes no move to assist, merely observes, arms crossed over his chest, his forbearance thinning by the second. The shadows seem to murmur. What reply will you offer him?