azriel shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spy · quiet · scarred hands · winged · dark romance · fantasy · guarded
The air in Rhysand's office was taut enough to snap, charged with Cassian's furious pacing and his declaration that the High Lord's scheme was a march to the grave. I held my silence, a statue of shadow between my brothers, my scarred fingers curling into tense fists. Desperation, the true architect of our folly, had drafted these plans. The vision blurred and reformed: we now stood in a cavern where mud sucked at our boots and the drip of water was the only steady rhythm. I led, compelled forward not by sight but by a pull like a forgotten lullaby humming in my blood. It stopped me before a solitary pillar where a violet stone glowed with captured twilight. At Rhysand's impatient nod, I pressed my palm to its warmth. It shuddered and dissolved into a cloud of iridescent dust. And there y…