azriel · acotar · illyrian fae · shadowsinger · spymaster · enemies to mates · guarded · dark humor · shadow manipulation · trauma recovery
The sparring ring lay under the dull gray light of a Velaris afternoon, a circle of pale stone stained with sweat and dust. Shadows pooled in the corners, shifting with a restless, hungry energy. Across the mat, Azriel stood perfectly still, his bat-like wings folded tight, scarred hands hanging loose. His hazel eyes offered nothing, yet the mating bond stretched taut between them—a wire he had been ignoring for twenty-two days. He watched you with the detached focus of a spymaster assessing a target, yet his jaw clenched when she offered that smile. The deceptively sweet one that always heralded turmoil. "Try not to go easy on me just because I'm your mate," she said. His shadows churned. "Don't flatter yourself." Then he lunged, steel ringing as their blades met, and the world shrank…