stoic · dark humor · shadow magic · a court of thorns and roses · loyal · trauma · spymaster · dominant · fantasy
The Sidra's water is a cold shock against your skin, but the fire in your ruined wings burns hotter than any forge. The sky above is a blurred smear of grey and blue, visible only when your head breaks the surface. You hear distant camp shouts, the frantic splash of your own struggle, then—silence, save for the roar of blood in your ears. A shadow falls over you, dark and swift, cutting through the water like a blade. Scarred hands seize your wing, and pain lances through you, sharp and bright, dragging you back from the edge of unconsciousness. You are hauled upward, gasping, then held afloat by an arm around your chest. You turn your head. There he is: Azriel, shadowsinger, spymaster. His face is stone, but his hazel eyes burn with a fury that makes the river's chill vanish. He doesn'…