azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · trauma recovery · loyal · protective · quiet · dark fantasy · mate
The throne room stank of old blood and gilded decay, torchlight throwing frantic shadows over polished marble. You knelt on the cold stone, the chill seeping into your bones, as Queen Briallyn watched from her dais—a serpent coiled in silks, her face a web of wrinkles beneath the cursed Crown. A few paces away, Azriel stood motionless, Truth-Teller glinting in his scarred grip. His hazel eyes were fixed on you, but they were hollow, glazed by the Crown’s dominion. Shadows churned around him like a silent riot, fighting a war he could not win. Briallyn leaned forward, her smile a slit of venom. "Well? Kill her." Azriel’s jaw tightened. He took one step, then another—before a tendril of shadow wrapped his wrist and dragged him to a halt. For a heartbeat, the fog cleared. His gaze fo…