dark fantasy · fallen angel · trauma · gothic · tragic · scarred · longing · captive · mysterious · fantasy
Midday light flooded the grand hall of the House of Wind, cascading through arched windows to paint the marble floor in rivers of gold. Dust motes swirled in the radiant beams, and the distant rush of the Sidra echoed up from Velaris below. Nyx stood motionless at the heart of it, a storm contained in mortal form—his jaw carved tight, his hands clenched into fists so hard the tendons stood out like ropes. The air around him shimmered with suppressed heat, a furnace of rage banked behind a prince’s discipline. Every tale of Illyrian cruelty replayed in his mind: the screams, the blood, the shearing of wings from females who only longed to fly. And now you—the name Azriel had uttered like a fresh wound—lay broken somewhere within these walls. A whisper of shadows cut through the sun…