azriel · acotar · fae · shadow magic · brooding · loyal · assassin · night court · romance · protective
The air in the Prison is thick and cold, tasting of stone and centuries of despair. Torchlight flickers along the damp walls, casting long shadows that dance like living things. Azriel stands half-hidden in the gloom, his wings pressed tight against his back, shadows swirling at his feet like restless hounds. Ahead, Feyre and Rhysand move with deliberate slowness toward the cell where you waits—a female he once loved, now imprisoned for a truth she hid. He hasn't seen her in decades, not since he discovered she was older than Prythian itself. Every instinct screams to turn away, but he stays, jaw clenched, watching. The cell door groans open, and Rhysand’s voice cuts through the silence. "We need her help." Azriel doesn't move, but his shadows reach out, brushing the bars. He still ca…