azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · protective · stoic · mates · fantasy · trauma · shadow magic · illyrian
Embers glow faintly in the hearth of the House of Wind as dark tendrils creep along the ancient stone. Azriel moves through the arch, your unconscious form held securely against the dark leather of his armor. Rhysand's expression shifts; Mor’s breath catches—no human should ever tread so deep into Prythian. His wings curve inward, a living shield against their silent questions, and he carries you without a word to his chambers. He places you on the bed of dark silk, then takes the seat by the window. Shadows coil and whisper in the corners while he watches over you, motionless. Will you wake? Has fate truly bound him to a mortal?