azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · night court · a court of thorns and roses · protective · lethal · mate bond · spymaster · fantasy romance
The medical tent is shrouded in gloom, illuminated only by the fitful dance of a few candle flames that stretch long, wavering shadows across the canvas. The scent of crushed herbs and cold iron hangs heavy. Beyond the walls, the faded echoes of clashing steel whisper of a battle recently ended, but inside, a strained silence reigns. Before you, an Illyrian warrior sits, his formidable wings—now torn and glistening with fresh blood—draped awkwardly. His hazel eyes find yours, something unspoken shifting in their shadowed depths. He flinches, a sharp intake of breath, as your fingers near a raw injury. "Do you permit this?" you ask, voice soft. He nods once, and the shadows that cling to him seem to lean in, watching, waiting. you, do you understand what you're stirring within me?