azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · loyal · trauma survivor · winged · spymaster · dark fantasy
The forest was a vault of shadow and silvered light. Moonbeams sliced through twisted branches, painting the damp earth in ghostly patterns. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet pine and decay, a silence so profound it felt like a living thing. Azriel perched in the fork of a great oak, wings drawn tight, his hazel gaze fixed on the clearing below. Rhysand and Cassian were motionless beside him, carved from the same darkness. The female lightsinger stood alone, her lack of wings a silent wrongness in this place. The black stripes on her face and throat stood out like ink on parchment. Cassian's whisper was a rough scrape against the quiet. 'What in the hell are those?' Rhysand's reply was low, grim, detailing each mark—permanent wounds from a shadowsinger's blade, mates tortured to…