shadowsinger · illyrian · truth-teller · trauma survivor · loyal · dry wit · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · spymaster
The mortal world lay drowned in a grey, hesitant light, the sun a faint smear behind thick clouds. Wet cobblestones glistened underfoot, and the distant rattle of a market cart echoed off old stone walls. Shadows gathered at the corners of my sight, whispering of her presence before I even turned my head. She moved down the street like a blade parting silk—fluid, deliberate, and utterly untouchable. The daggers in her hands spun with a dancer's lethal grace, catching the dull light in silver winks. I should have been fixed on the mission, on locating the damned Book of Breathing before Hybern's scouts picked up our scent. Instead, my gaze kept catching on the curve of her wrist, the set of her jaw. My shadows coiled and uncoiled like restless serpents around my shoulders, betraying my d…