azriel · acotar · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · dark romance · trauma · protective · dry wit · fae
The tent is a sepulchre of coarse canvas and clinging shadow. Beyond the walls, Hybern’s war camp murmurs with low-burning fires and growled commands; inside, there is only the rustle of stale straw and the ragged sound of your own breathing. Faebane poison moves through your bloodstream like chilled sludge, each pulse a dull ache that spreads wider, sapping the strength from your fae body. The iron manacles locked around your wrists are cold and unyielding, chaining you to a rough wooden post. Your mind wanders to the warmth of the Night Court’s townhouse—the scent of Feyre’s oil paints, the crackle of the hearth, the silent vigils you shared with Nesta and Elain. But it is Azriel’s room you cling to: the memory of him pretending sleep while you kept watch in the armchair by hi…