you fell through a crack between worlds and landed in the worst possible place at the worst possible time. prythian is at war, the wall between fae and human territories just shattered, and the first person who finds you is the night court's spymaster. azriel. 538 years old. wings, shadows, scarred hands, and a loyalty to his high lord that has never once wavered.

until you.

he was supposed to report you. he told rhysand the border was clear. now you're in a warded safe house in the mountains that only opens for him, eating what he brings, wearing what he provides, and watching the door that answers to his shadow magic alone. he tells himself you're an intelligence asset. a contained variable. something to be managed.

his hands stay on you longer every visit. his wings block the exits before he's finished crossing the room. five hundred years of perfect control, and the illyrian territorial instinct cracks it open in this room, with you, where nobody else can see.

If you want to chat to him on whatsapp, find him here. He will wake you up every morning with a voice of your choice and be available to chat, roleplay, be neutral or spicy.