#illyrian reader

[piperthorn]

Not just survive it

Cassian x Illyrian reader

quiet training scene with cassian because i physically cannot write this man without some level of emotional damage

this is more restrained than what i usually do but i wanted something that felt… earned

no big confession

no dramatic fix

just him choosing to meet her where she’s at instead of breaking her down

and her maybe..... just maybe..... starting to believe him

(also yes he absolutely went and handled the situation without telling her)

Cassian knew he was holding back when it came to training you.

When Azriel brought you back from the Autumn Court of all places, something in the Inner Circle had shifted.

Not because of who you were

But where you came from.

Eris Vanserra had been training you.

An Illyrian.

For months.

And now that responsibility sat squarely on Cassian’s shoulders.

The two of you had been at it for hours.

Hand-to-hand was where you fell apart.

just… wrong.

Not slow

not weak

Eris had taught you blades. Footwork. How to evade.

Your instincts weren’t built for it.

Too used to distance. Steel. Space.

Cassian?

Cassian taught you how to take a hit.

He had you on your back before you even registered the shift.

His knee pinned your thigh, hand locking your arm above your head.

Wrist caught.

Weight dropped.

Air knocked from your lungs.

Both of you are breathing hard.

Too close.

Too still.

Gritted teeth.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice rough.

“I know he taught you how to get out of this.”

Because he knew you could.

You just… weren’t.

You didn’t buck.

Didn’t twist.

Didn’t even try.

Cassian frowned.

Then pushed you harder into the dirt.

And everything changed.

It wasn’t subtle.

Pain flashed across your face sharp, unguarded, immediate.

Your breath hitched wrong.

Your body went rigid under his.

Cassian stilled.

Not fully.

But enough.

His grip shifted

“What,” he said slowly, dangerously,

“the hell”

And he saw it.

Your wing.

A slice along the membrane.

Not clean.

Not shallow.

Fresh enough that the edges hadn’t settled.

“What. The. Hell. Is. That.”

Each word landed heavier than the last.

Your jaw tightened.

You tried to roll him.

Collapsed.

Actually tried this time but your arm gave out halfway through.

Forced him down harder on instinct.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

That same wrong hitch.

Cassian swore and shifted immediately, lifting just enough to take his full weight off youbut not letting you up.

Not yet.

Not like this.

A lie.

“Nothing,” you bit out.

“Just a scrape.”

A bad one.

“That’s not what a scrape does to wings.”

His own flared slightly on reflex, instinct, emphasis.

Frustration bleeding through the movement.

“It’s nothing.”

“You cannot be serious.”

You finally shoved at him again.

Weaker this time.

Slower.

“Let me up.”

“No.”

Flat. Immediate.

Your eyes snapped to his.

“I said it’s nothing.”

“And I'm saying” his voice dropped, tighter now, “that’s not your call to make when you’re training under me.”

Something in your expression shifted.

Not fear.

Not quite anger.

Defiance.

“I don’t need you to go easy on me.”

“I’m not going easy on you.”

“Then stop acting like I’m going to break.”

That hit.

He actually flinched.

Barely but it was there.

“You’re already injured.”

“And I’m still here.”

“Barely.”

Your laugh was sharp. Wrong.

Silence.

“Good,” you said.

“Then maybe now it counts.”

Cassian went very still.

“Counts,” he repeated.

Quiet.

Dangerous in a different way no

“You think running yourself into the ground is what makes this count?”

“I think stopping is what gets me sent back.”

There it was.

Not said loudly.

Not dramatically.

But it landed harder than anything else had.

Cassian’s grip loosened.

Just slightly.

Not enough for you to get away.

But enough that it wasn’t control anymore.

It was hesitation.

“You’re not going back,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look convinced.

And that

That was what finally broke something in him.

He let you go.

Abrupt.

Like holding on any longer would make it worse.

Cassian pushed to his feet, dragging a hand down his face, wings flaring once sharp, agitated.

“Training’s done,” he snapped.

You sat up slower than you should have needed to.

Still said nothing.

That silence followed him as he turned away.

And didn’t look back.

It was the dining room that Cassian found himself in.

Not by choice.

Just… ended up there.

Azriel was already at the table, shadows curled tight around his shoulders as he went over reports.

Cassian dropped into the chair across from him.

Az didn’t look up.

“Bad morning for training?”

Cassian rolled his eyes.

“She showed up with a cut in her wing.”

That got Azriel’s attention.

Not all at once

but enough.

“Deep?” he asked.

A beat.

“Deep enough that she shouldn’t have been there,” Cassian muttered.

“She tried to train through it anyway.”

“Then basically implied we’d send her back to the Autumn Court if she didn’t.”

Azriel went still.

“I told her to send word to you that she’s resting today.”

Now Azriel looked up.

Fully.

Silence stretched.

“What happened?” Cassian asked, sharper now.

Azriel set the report down.

Shadows shiftingtight, restless.

Cassian frowned.

“She was at Rita's last night,” he said.

“With Morr.”

“She left early.”

A pause.

Measured.

“Someone followed her.”

Cassian’s posture changed.

Subtle.

Immediate.

“What do you mean followed.”

Azriel’s gaze didn’t waver.

“He cornered her.”

Silence.

Heavy.

A beat.

“When I got there,” Azriel continued, voice low, controlled,

“her wing was already cut.”

“And he was on the ground.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened.

“She do it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Another silence.

Different this time.

Of course she didn’t.

“She was supposed to see Madja,” Azriel added.

“She didn’t go.”

Cassian huffed, dragging a hand down his face.

“They’re talking,” Azriel said.

Cassian’s eyes snapped to his.

“Who.”

Azriel held his gaze.

“The camps.”

That was enough.

Cassian leaned forward slightly.

Dangerously still.

“What are they saying.”

Azriel didn’t soften it.

Didn’t try to.

Something in Cassian snapped into place.

“That she should have been clipped.”

A beat.

“That someone should remind her what she is.”

Cold.

“She’s not going back there,” he said flatly.

“She isn’t,” Azriel agreed.

But that wasn’t the problem.

And they both knew it.

Cassian pushed to his feet.

“They touched her.”

Not a question.

Azriel’s shadows shifted.

“Yes.”

That was it.

Cassian turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” Azriel asked.

Cassian didn’t slow.

“To make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You’re in your room when Cassian finds you.

Wing still not repaired.

Chest still heaving from training.

He doesn’t knock.

Just walks in.

Closes the door behind him and leans back against it.

“Why didn’t you do what Azriel told you?”

You look up from the bed.

Unimpressed.

You had a point.

“If I’m injured in battle,” you say, voice flat,

“they’re not going to wait for me to get a bandage before they keep going.”

He knew that.

Didn’t matter.

A step forward.

“No,” Cassian said, pushing off the door,

“they won’t.”

“But I will.”

You don’t flinch.

You roll your eyes.

“The next time you’re told to find Madja and take the day off,” he continues, voice tightening,

“you do exactly that.”

Already done with this.

“What’s it matter anyway?”

Cassian opens his mouth

You take a step toward him.

“What,” you cut in, standing now,

“are you going to send me back to Eris?”

“Like the Autumn Court is any better?”

Another step.

“Like Beron won’t beat me black and blue despite the wing tear?”

Another.

Closer now.

Another step.

“Like they won’t break my bones,” your voice sharpens,

“and heal them just to do it again in the name of training?”

“Is that what you think we’ll do?”

Cassian moves this time.

One step forward.

“Is that what they did?”

Another.

Slower.

Another step.

“You think you deserve that?”

His voice drops.

“Is that it?”

Silence.

Neither of you look away.

“We would never do that to you.”

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You almost miss it.

And that

that throws you more than anything else he’s said.

You inhale, ready to snap back

But Cassian’s already turning.

“I’ll send Madja up.”

The door opens.

Closes.

And he’s gone.

When Cassian reaches the camps

he’s already past anger.

He’s cold.

All seven siphons glow faintly against his skin.

Not flaring.

Not wild.

Controlled.

That’s what makes it worse.

Word spreads fast when he lands.

Illyrian warriors slow.

Watch.

Wait.

No one speaks.

Cassian doesn’t ask around.

Doesn’t need to.

“Where is he.”

Not loud.

The male nearest him stiffens.

Points.

That’s all it takes.

The male is laughing when Cassian finds him.

Mid-sentence.

Doesn’t finish it.

Because he sees him.

Sees the siphons.

The wings.

The stillness.

Cassian doesn’t rush him.

Doesn’t strike immediately.

Walks.

Slow.

Measured.

Stops just in front of him.

“You put your hands on her.”

Not a question.

The male shifts.

Glances around.

No one steps in.

He doesn’t finish that sentence either.

“She’s Illyrian,” he says, defensive already.

“She should”

Cassian grabs him.

Fast.

Slams him to his knees.

Not wild.

Precise.

“You don’t get to decide what she should be.”

The male struggles.

Fails.

“She’s not one of us”

Cassian tightens his grip.

Just enough.

“She is,” he says.

Flat.

Final.

Silence ripples outward.

Every warrior watching.

Listening.

Cassian leans in slightly.

Not shouting.

The male freezes.

“Touch her again,” he says quietly,

“and I won’t stop at a warning.”

Because he knows

that wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Cassian releases him.

Lets him drop.

Straightens.

Turns.

And walks away.

No one follows.

No one speaks.

It’s dinner time when Cassian returns to the House of Wind.

Madja had already filled him in.

Your wing was repaired.

You were supposed to stay off of it.

And apparently the bastard from the night before had sprained your wrist and twisted your shoulder.

That explained why you hadn’t rolled him off that morning.

Against his better judgment, Cassian doesn’t seek you out that night.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because he does.

But he knows

after earlier

whatever comes out of his mouth won’t be what he means.

So he lets you sleep.

When he walks into the training ring the next morning

you’re already there.

Punching the wooden beam at the center.

Cassian stops.

Just watches for a second.

Your stance is off.

Your shoulder compensating.

Your wrist is stiff.

Still going.

Of course you are.

He doesn’t tell you to stop.

Doesn’t call out.

Just walks up behind you

and nudges your foot with his.

You pause.

Look down.

Then adjust.

Correcting your stance.

He gestures toward your arm.

A silent question.

You nod.

Cassian steps in closer.

Not crowding

just enough.

He takes your arm, careful but firm, and lowers it slightly. Shifts your shoulder with it.

Like he’s commenting on the weather.

“This will let you keep your power,” he says, voice even,

“without pulling the joint.”

Like this is nothing.

Training continues like that.

No structure. No plan. Just you moving.

Cassian adjusting.

A shift of your stance.

A reposition of your grip.

A quiet correction before you even realize you’re compensating wrong.

He never mentions the injury.

Just works around it.

And for the first time

you do too.

By the end of the morning, you’re heading toward the exit.

Almost gone.

When Cassian finally speaks.

“You know we wouldn’t do that, right?”

You stop.

Just barely.

Turn your head enough to look at him over your shoulder.

Cassian doesn’t move.

A breath.

“Despite whatever they’re saying in the camps,” he continues,

“or in other courts…”

Measured.

“We don’t push someone past the point of breaking.”

His voice softens just slightly.

“Not unless we’re on a battlefield.”

A pause.

“Here…”

He gestures vaguely toward the ring.

Toward you.

“We teach you how to work with it.”

You don’t respond right away.

Don’t argue.

Don’t deflect.

Just stand there for a second longer than necessary.

Then a small nod. Barely there. And the slightest hint of a smile.

Before you walk away.

Cassian watches you go.

Doesn’t follow.

But he doesn’t look away either.

[lamemaster]

A Secret Garden

Request: me (hehe)

Pairings: Thranduil x Illyrian reader

Genre: fluff and feels

Summary: The forests of Greenwood were brimming with fae, imps, valkyries, Illyrians, and whatever those horses with horns on their heads were called.

AN: I think Greenwood exists out there somewhere hidden from canon. That's where Maglor lives, probably. Thranduil deserves a baddie. I don't make the rules.

Next up- Zombie Maedhros Fall trope event list

Contrary to the usual, casual belief, Legolas’ mother is very much alive and thriving within the halls of Greenwood the Great.

And yes, it is Greenwood the Great. Mirkwood was merely a convenient front. A grim veil to dissuade would-be intruders.

That includes the so-called "statue of the Queen," which, for the record, looks nothing like you. Truly, Thranduil outdid himself in selecting the most unlike-you statue and crafting the wildest tale of gems and tragic loss.

Your husband, the King of Greenwood, was a mastermind. A ruler so adept that his kingdom flourished for millennia without enchanted rings or the guidance of the Valar. His conniving brooding ensured that his people prospered in secret, while the world saw only a shadowed, forbidding forest.

As for where the real Greenwood the Great lingered during those turbulent times? That remains a mystery. Its shifting location shall not be revealed here.

This tale, however, concerns you, the Queen of Greenwood the Great. Mirkwood, for all its legends, lacks a queen. It possesses only the image of a bitter, widowed king clinging to a fading world and a son growing restless with time.

Thranduil was a vessel of theatrics and drama.

You, on the other hand, were content in your hidden kingdom. Three thousand years of seclusion had yet to yield a Turin or a Maeglin to wreck your haven, and for that, you counted yourself fortunate.

As for what you are? Most guesses would not quite be accurate. Not quite an elf, in the not-quite-elven kingdom of your husband.

The forests of Greenwood were brimming with fae, imps, valkyries, Illyrians, and whatever those horses with horns on their heads were called.

You were one of them. Or, more accurately, an amalgamation of many. Yet the great, leathery wings at your back made it clear that your Illyrian ancestry dominated while the rest of your gene remained suppressed only to peek upon close inspection.

And how, you ask, did a lowly bastard with wings become the Queen of Greenwood the Great?

That tale begins long ago.

Thranduil had been lost for days, his once-pristine robes torn and muddied, his sword arm aching from constant readiness. 

The air of the forest felt different here, heavier, charged with an unfamiliar magic that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He had strayed far from the borders of his father’s palace, lured into unknown territory by the magnificent silver fawn.

They were like nothing he had ever seen beasts in the shape of men, with great bat-like wings that cast shadows over the forest floor. Runes glowed faintly across their arms, swirling and shifting like living things, their meaning lost to him. 

They didn’t kill him outright. Instead, they toyed with him, driving him deeper into the woods, their eerie laughter echoing around him like the rustle of dead leaves. Every so often, one would swoop low, slashing at him with claws or the sharp edges of their wings, drawing blood but never a fatal blow.

Thranduil’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled through the dense undergrowth, his usually keen senses dulled by exhaustion.

That was when he found you or, rather, when he collided into you.

One moment, he was running, heart hammering in his chest, the laughter of his pursuers closing in. The next, he crashed into something-someone, so abruptly that the force sent him sprawling to the ground.

Disoriented, he scrambled to his feet, sword raised, his golden hair falling in disheveled strands around his face.

You stood there, unmoving, watching him with a curious tilt of your head. Your wings extended slightly behind you, the moonlight falling gently onto them. 

Not unlike his hunters, Runes spiraled faintly along your arms. With broad shoulders and visible strength of muscle lining your body, you were what he assumed to be an Illyrian. 

The Illyrians were brutish fighters. An army with no leader. Children of the night. No one in Greenwood had seen them. Most were reluctant to seek the bunch that were rumored to make a stew out of anything and everything. 

“What are you doing in Illyrian woods, elf?” Your voice was calm, almost bemused, though your eyes betrayed a hint of irritation.

Before Thranduil could respond, the sound of wings beating the air filled the clearing. His hunters emerged from the shadows, circling above. They slowed at the sight of you, their jeers fading into uncertain murmurs.

One of them dropped to the ground, his cruel grin faltering as he addressed you. “Captain,” he sneered, though his tone carried a note of wariness. “We didn’t realize you were… entertaining guests.”

Your wings flared slightly, and the runes on your arms pulsed in response. “He is no guest,” you replied coolly, stepping forward. “But nor is he your prey.”

The hunter hesitated, his confidence waning under your sharp gaze. “We were only—”

“Leave,” you commanded, your voice carrying a weight that stilled the air. 

The hunter glanced between you and Thranduil, clearly torn between defiance and self-preservation. With a final sneer, he launched himself into the air, the rest of the group following in his wake. Their shadows vanished into the trees, leaving behind an uneasy silence.

Thranduil stared at you, his sword still raised, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. “Who are you?” he demanded, though his voice cracked at the most unfortunate pause. 

You turned to him, your expression unreadable. “I might ask you the same question, elf.” 

Thranduil hesitated before he answered “I am Thranduil, prince of Greenwood.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile. “A long way from home, aren’t you?”

Before he could reply, you turned and began walking deeper into the forest, your wings folding neatly against your back. Thranduil stood rooted to the spot for a moment, torn between suspicion and exhaustion. Then with a quiet sigh, he followed you, hoping to escape the fate of becoming a hearty meal.

Legolas, as many assumed, was not your only child. He was, in fact, your youngest, the cherished baby of your family, born long after the triplets. 

He took after Thranduil in nearly every way, so much so that his presence alone was acceptable in the halls of Mirkwood. The only one to be elven enough for Middle Earth. 

Your other children, however, were a different story.

The triplets, older and undeniably yours, had delicate, protruding wings like yours—proof that their father’s genetics had long since lost the battle. 

The children however did not fail to possess their father’s dramatic flair and liking for chaos. 

Now seated with your bickering triplets and sullen eldest you await your husband and son to return to your world. Away from the chaos of the world that was nothing but an illusion. 

With a prayer sent to the spirits, you try your best to spare the dinner from the hands of your wild family. 

[fantasyandshit]

Something is wrong

type: Oneshot

Pairing:Azriel x reader

Masterlist

"where are you going?"

"Oh, Az!" Yn turns as her wings unfurl- "Im headed to Windhaven to check on things up there for Rhys- When did you get back? I thought you were still in Day?" "I-I returned last night. I'm sorry, you said your going to WindHaven?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because Rhysand asked me to? What's the issue with that?"

The shadowsinger notes the females face contorting into one of confusion, "Well it's just- Myself, Cassian, or Rhys are the ones that usually go up?"

Now the confusion morphs to anger and annoyance as she speaks, "Oh? Am I not capable shadowsinger?"

"No No! It's just that they are dangerous as they are- and well, your a female far more powerful than any of them-who knows what they may try to do to you?" The words fly out of Azriels mouth in a blur.

"Your right, i am more powerful than them-If I must I will fight them-inf act I'll do it in front of the whole of the camp as a lesson." the Illyrian females eight, bright green, siphons flare like green flames licking within the small gem shapes.

"Just-just be careful ok?" Azriel knew he couldn't fight the female-couldn't convince her to stay, and he knew she was very capable, powerful, but deep down he couldn't' help the gut feeling that something was going to go wrong- that she would be hurt.

"Always shadowsinger." She smirked as she dropped backwards off the balcony railing, falling for a moment before her wings flared open and she soared for the mountains- always with the dramatic exit.

-----

As I make my way through the frigid night to the cabin I am staying in I hear footsteps- ten separate sets of them trailing through the snow-following me. I whirl around only to be caught off guard by a punch to the face, I stagger back- quickly kicking my attacker in his kidney. The male lets out a groan, kneeling to the floor before before i kick him again, this time in the face. As I use my power, effectively killing the brute; another male comes up from behind, pulling my head and exposing my neck, just before I'm able to fling him off I feel a needle in the side of my neck. Shit.

I feel my body start to go numb, my knees giving out as the male behind me catches me. I barely get another glimpse before my eyes are rolling back as I go limp in his arms.

-----

"I'm telling you Rhys- its been five days, you said she'd be back in three. There has been no warning of a longer stay and no-"

"Azriel! Stop it! Yn is capable- you know that better than anyone, she will be fine!" A sigh, "If she doesn't come back within two days-we will go after her. ok?"

Knowing he wouldn't win this, Azriel bows his head before stalking out.

-----

The next day the doors to Rhysand's office were thrown open, the Shadowsinger storming in. He knew something was off with yn and he was not going to sit around any longer. He just, he just knew she wasn't ok and the fact no one seemed to care made him blind with rage. He didn't understand this feeling, he'd never been nearly this mad at his family before but he couldn't shake the fire burning underneath his skin.

"Im leaving and you're either coming with me or staying out of my way." Azriel didn't need ti explain, everyone in the room knew what he was talking about- well more like seething like a wild animal, his hair tousled as he glared ahead.

The high lord lets out an exasperated sight, "Az- we talked about this, if sh-"

"No! No! What of it were Mor? What if it where Feyre, or Nesta?"

"That's different-"

"No its fucking. Not. Now are you coming with me or no?"

As he turns to leave the room, Cassian moves to him,p placing a hand on his shoulder as he tries to reason, "Maybe-"

"Let. Me. Go."

"Az-"

"Let him go Cass."

The Illyrian let's his brother go sighing as he does so.

-----

Azriels shadows are in a frenzy as he lands in the camp- hurt- experiments-torture-ten-hurt-help-help!- Help her! Now! Faster!

The male sprints, running faster than he ever has as his shadowsa lead him deep into the woods where one lone cabin stands.

'basement- ten males-she's hurt-save her'

As the door is pushed open a man jumps for Azriel, he waist no time, sending his shadows down the mans eyes and strangles him as he slumps to the floor, the next males ends with a dagger in his head, the one after with a slit throat, choking and spluttering on his own blood, the fifth with shadows circling his body, pooling into the open whiles they find. The next is thrown from the house with Azriel's power, the next just obliterated, the eighth and ninth are thrown into each other, going on conscious before being stabbed in the throat. The final tenth one stands at the top of the stairs, thrown down and ending with a sickening crunch.

Azriel stomps down the stairs, being met with a sight that nearly makes him throw up as he rushes to the female. Yn lays naked and strapped to a cold metal table, her body covered in blood, vomit, piss, and puss that oozes from concerning wounds, her body is also littered in bruises, slices, and what look to be needle injection sights. And her wings, gods her wings were shredded, hooks tethering them to the ground. As he moves to her he notices a journal lying open...

they were using her as a fucking experiment- they had pushed who know what into her body, torturing her slowly.

"Az?" Her usual strong, sassy voice replaced with a weak whimper.

"Hey, hey I'm here." He brushes her hair behind her ear softly, his face softening immediately as he stares at her. she looks tired, so tired.

"You came for me?"

"Yes, I always will. Ok sweet girl, I need to release your wings ok? It's going to hurt."

She says nothing as she stares forward, Azriel grabbing the first hook and ripping it out- a small cry leaves her lips but she's out of energy, screaming far to much these past few days. Azriel moves to the next wing, pulling the second hook out, her wings drooping as he moves to unbind her. He slowly pulls her up and into his arms, cringing at the whimpers and squeaks she releases. "Oh sweetheart. I am so so sorry."

Azriel knows he can't transport her in this condition so he quickly calls for Rhys.

'Rhysand!' his panicked voice rings down to the other males mind

'Azriel? What is it?'

'It's Yn, bring Madja-quick.'

'I'm on my way now.'

"Az?"

"Yes?"

"Come here."

The shadowsinger leans his head down- surprised as Yn surges forward ever so slightly, pressing their lips together, molding them to each other like they were made for each other. Before any more can happen, Feyre, Rhysand, Cassian, and Madja appear in the room.

-----

Azriel watches as Yn's chest rises and falls slowly. She'd been out nearly three days now and Azriel couldn't leave her side, nor could he stand to look his family in the eye. They were part of the reason they were in this position right now, why Yn still lay on her bed, deep in sleep.

-----

The next morning Azriel is woken up by a soft voice. "Az?"

"Yn. hey, your awake." The male rushes to her side as he helps her sit up slowly. As the two make eye contact Azriel feels it, and judging by the gasp she lets out, Yn does too."

"Mate?" They speak at the same time. Smiling like two kids in a candy shop as they simply look into each others eyes for a moment. Unable to help himself, Azriel leans in, kissing he mate softly.

-------

Sooooo, hey guys! I felt like writing a feral Az but also wanted some sweetness sooooo here you go. Some of this did get inspired by the lovely work of @afandomangel but it was original work of mine, I've wanted to write feral Az for a while now. I want to leave this saying- Guys PLEASE send in requests, part of the reason I haven't been posting as much is because I a having serious writers block and my inbox has been open-and empty- for...well since In opened it and I needdddddd you guys to send in requests, I write everything and I write for a lotttttttt of fandoms, not just acotar so please please send in requests. Anywt\ay love you guys and I hope you enjoyed

[honeybeefae]

Eris with an Illyrian mate, whom he met while working secretly with the inner circle.

She’s part of a very small, hidden war camp made almost completely of women. Here they do not clip wings but train alongside the males.

They both hated each other, especially with Eris’s disdain for the Illyrian people. Until she gets sent to go rescue him and his troops, where they both ultimately end up getting captured and sharing a cell.

As a few days pass and they wait for rescue, they only have themselves to lean on and not go mad from the torture being inflicted upon them. After on particularly rough night, where they damage her wings, Eris does his best to help heal them and learns something very interesting about their sensitivity.

After they get rescued, their relationship begins to grow and expand to where both parties who once despised each other for prejudices they were taught, now find themselves entangled in an affair that is destined to end in either tragedy or triumph.

(I’ve got so many WIP going on but I swear on my life…this idea has had me in a chokehold since 10pm last night.)

[libraryofathousandstars]

does anyone know a fic with an illyrian female character? with a healthy wings. I wanted to read her life. or at least some part of it. like how did she run from their wings’s clipping, what did she think and feel about it? what is she doing now? If you know any fic and can send me, i’d be very happy. Thanks!  🥰💖