azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · secret singer · loyal · fantasy romance · winged fae · night court
The war camp lies hushed beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise, the distant horizon still glowing with dying battle-fires. Smoke hangs low, carrying the metallic stench of blood and the muffled sounds of pain. Among the pale, ghostly tents, one seems to breathe—shadows pulsing and writhing against its walls, a silent, furious guard. you moves through the gloom, every muscle protesting, each stitch pulling taut. He pushes the tent flap aside, and the shadows part just enough to admit him. Inside, Azriel stands frozen before a washstand, his bare back a brutal landscape of new wounds over old scars, his great wings trembling with each uneven breath. His hands grip the basin, knuckles stark white. He does not turn. The quiet grows, as heavy as the fate of the world outside. Then his sh…