#hewn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

illyrianbitch · 1 year ago

Text

Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths — Part Two

Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel

Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

Warnings: inner circle being unable to emotionally regulate, y/n being a soft spot for mor, y/n being suspicious, keir (🤮), some necessary build up for future parts, men in general (🤮).

Word Count: 3.9k

←Part One Part Three→

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It didn’t take long for people to get suspicious. You had planned for this, of course, you knew the nature of your people. It took a few years, but soon enough you had a system in place; a way to get around the skeptical and paranoid eyes of Hewn City– a way to avoid the power your father held. In the worst case scenario, you always planned to take your own life. Set fire to your information, to everything that revealed the acts you had committed. Your work would die with you. After all, you swore to protect it with your life.

You were caught one evening as you returned home, becoming aware of the man trailing behind you within moments of his appearance. Easily, your hand found itself resting on a dagger hidden in your sleeve, and you pulled him into an alley, holding him with your knife against this throat.

You recognized him, recognized his golden brown hair and bright green eyes. A commander. He didn’t struggle against you, nor did he make any moves to fight back. “Please,” He had said, his arms up in surrender, “Hear me out.”

They had spent weeks deliberating their visit to you, wondering if it was worth the effort— wondering if they really needed your help. With the plan underway, Feyre, Mor, and Cassian had stationed themselves, waiting with bated breath for Rhys and Azriel's return. They knew it was unsuccessful the minute both men entered. Rhysand’s usual grace was replaced by visible frustration as he stormed in, the failure of their trip clung to both him and Azriel like a heavy layer of clothing. Mor's gaze flicked between the two, an expectant look ingrained into her strong features. Wordlessly, Rhys moved swiftly towards his office.

"So, by your cheery smiles, I'm guessing it went smoothly?"

Rhysand shot Cassian a piercing glare as he walked past, causing him to recoil in his seat instinctively. Feyre watched Rhysand's retreating and frowned, turning towards Azriel. His hazel eyes met her gaze briefly before looking away. Saying nothing, Az walked to an empty chair and dropped himself down with a deep exhale.

Feyre sighed, and with a resigned glance, she handed her wine glass to Mor, who took it without a word. With a brief look back at her friends, she made her way towards Rhysand's office as Mor eagerly poured the remaining wine into her own cup and took a large sip.

The room remained in a hushed stillness as the mated pair retreated into the office. Cassian and Mor exchanged uneasy glances before they both drew their gaze over to Azriel. His posture, typically erect and poised, now sagged as he curled into himself, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands as he ran them up and down. There was a slight twitch in his wings as they settled behind him, slumped and slightly limp, reflecting a certain vulnerability– one of a man caught off guard.

It was a rare sight: Azriel, the Spymaster, usually shrouded in shadows and secrets, now laid bare before them. Az wasn’t one to wear his emotions openly, even in front of his family. He’d gotten good at it over the centuries— the practice of keeping his walls up just long enough for him to reach his bedroom, to welcome the sweet release of solidarity before he let his emotions breathe. But here he was, so evidently feeling. The sheer sight of it made Cassian uncomfortable, on edge, as if he should be prepared for an enemy to walk in any second and finish Azriel off.

"What happened back there, Az?" Cassian asked, his voice low and concerned.

Azriel hesitated.

“She called me a dog." He admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.

Cassian, taken aback, let out a sound of surprise that mirrored both a laugh and a scoff. He opened his mouth to respond, a teasing remark making itself to the tip of his tongue, but the burning intensity in Azriel's eyes, which were now on him, halted him in his tracks. Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Cassian chose silence over a misplaced joke, quickly coughing to stop himself instead.

Then, he got up and slowly walked over to Azriel, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it can only get better from here, right?" He said, his voice carrying a hopeful tone as he tried to alleviate the suffocating tension that reeked in the air.

Azriel turned his head to look up at his brother, his expression a bold showing of both disbelief and deep irritation. Cassian continued.

“I mean… theres only up once you’ve hit rock bottom.”

Mor rolled her eyes. Annoyance etched across her features as she huffed audibly, setting her wine glass down with a clatter before making a swift exit.

"Well, everyone's making fun exits today, huh?" Cassian gave a wry grin, gesturing towards the space Mor had just vacated.

Azriel just sighed, sinking further into the couch, shadows swirling restlessly around him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw you again. Your face. Your eyes, your anger. He ignored the way his stomach clenched as he pushed the image of you away.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Rhysand was beside himself.

Feyre could see it written on his face, felt it even deeper in her chest. His emotions were burning through their bond, hot enough for a heavy discomfort to settle in her own heart. Rhysand wasn’t just frustrated, he was angry, sad, disappointed, and guilty— all at the same time. The emotions were mixing among themselves, swirling inside of him and replacing any ability for coherent thinking. Instead, he was spewing every thought, every irritation.

"She didn't let me talk, treated me like a stranger in her home!"

Rhysand's voice was loud, an icy anger laced in it. Feyre watched as he paced back and forth, his hands clutching into fists at his side as he continued his rant. She hummed slightly.

"Well, did you at least give your condolences? For Caladan?"

Rhys stilled. He turned around and looked at his mate, at her scrunched eyebrows and expectant face. Suddenly feeling as if he was a child just caught in a lie, he looked away in shame.

“No. I did not.”

Feyre released a sigh.

“Rhys,” She said, the disappointed sound of his name falling from her lips. “That was your in.”

She was right, as she usually was. He had rushed headlong into business, seeking favors, and demanding help, and in doing so, he likely sabotaged the entire plan. And any potential for reconciliation, too. The realization gnawed at him and a sense of regret colored his features.

“Come here,” Feyre said, beckoning him to where she stood. He took hold of her extended hand and sat at the edge of his desk, taking in her kind face, the patience in her eyes. Feyre moved to stand between his thighs, her hands gently running through his hair in a soothing rhythm. The quiet, comforting touch seemed to ease some of his tension as he let out a deep breath.

"You went to her as High Lord. Maybe it would have been more successful if you had gone to her as Rhys, her cousin. Cassian seemed to think so as well.”

Rhys shook his head, leaning into Feyre’s touch.

"Cassian wasn’t there,” He said. “He didn’t see how she was, how she spoke to us—of us. She disrespected you, Feyre.”

She looked into his eyes, a dark violet now, pupils blown wide, and gave him a small smile. Threading her fingers through his hair, Feyre spoke softly to him.

"Whatever she said, I’m sure I’ve been told worse."

He shook his head again, clenching his jaw. Then, he gently reached to where her hand lay on his cheek, grabbing it in his own and bringing them to his lap.

"We may have overestimated the connection she still holds to us."

"Let's not make any assumptions now,” Feyre said with a small frown, a crease forming between her brows. “It was only one visit, and a short one at that."

Rhysand replayed the visit in his mind, the memory now a fresh and painful wound. He walked himself through it, wondering what he could have fixed, where he might have been able to mend the fraying threads of the connection you once held to him. His mind fixated on the look etched on your face, the callousness with which you addressed him and Azriel – even Azriel.

The change in you baffled him. He tugged at memories of the girl he had grown up with, the one adorned with a soft smile and bright eyes. How had that radiant spirit transformed so swiftly? The answer immediately echoed in his mind – Hewn City, an insidious place breeding misery. It had claimed you, just as it had claimed the rest.

“I don’t know what I can do,” Rhys admitted. “She was just so…”

“Cold? Detached?”

The sound of Mor’s voice caused both Feyre and Rhys to separate, turning their heads to the blonde who leaned casually against the now open door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” She said flatly. She turned her gaze to her cousin. "So, am I right? Was she cold, detached, exactly like I said she’d be?"

Rhysand shared a glance with his mate but said nothing. He couldn’t find the right words to say, and wouldn’t take the chance of saying the wrong ones. Not when the situation was so fragile, so delicate— and especially not when Mor was looking at him with that hard look on her face. The one she only wore when it came to you.

Mor took his silence as confirmation and crossed her arms against her chest. "I told you," she declared with an air of exasperation, her tone laced with pride. "It’s no use. You’ll sooner find spring flowers in the Winter Court than ever get her to agree."

Feyre felt herself deflate. She wanted to believe you were good, wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it was her relationship with Nesta, a woman that she knew with anger in her veins, similar to how Rhysand spoke of you now. Or maybe it was the few times she’d interacted with you, when you’d surprised her with your sweet tone.

Feyre casted a look at Mor.

“We will figure something out. Just be patient.”

Mor let out a small scoff, shaking her head. She pursed her lips before responding.

“Patience won’t thaw a frozen heart.”

Feyre watched as Mor lingered for a moment and then excused herself. But she didn't miss the subtle shift she saw in her friend's face. Underneath her anger and pride, Mor seemed sad… disappointed.

And Feyre was right. Mor was disappointed.

She had only seen you a handful of times since you returned to the hell that you both had escaped. Each of those times had been worse than the one before, an unspoken tension between you two, harsh glances thrown when you’d meet one another's eyes. Yet, deep down, despite her worst beliefs, a part of her had held onto hope that when Rhysand and Azriel returned, you would be with them.

It was a foolish dream, and now, having heard how Rhys spoke to Feyre about you, Mor felt like an idiot for ever entertaining the idea of you coming home. Well, the idea of you at all.

As she left Rhysand’s office, Feyre’s encouraging words echoed in her head. But she couldn’t feel them, not the way Feyre wanted her too; because Mor knew, deep in her heart...

You were a lost cause.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You knew about the rumors.

Of course you did.

After all, you were the one who started them.

A part of you found it unnerving, how easily the lie rolled off your tongue. You knew that time had changed you, had hardened you to a certain extent. You wouldn't have been able to survive this city otherwise. And you'd lied a lot since your return. Your entire life was a lie.

But you had been so careful when it came to them-- to your family. You wanted to believe that you were better than the people you looked down on, better than Rhysand, better than Mor, better than the people in your life that were selfish and blinded. But maybe you weren't. Perhaps you had gotten so good at lying that you didn't even realize when you were lying to yourself. You weren't ready to face that reality yet.

Rhysand and Azriel weren't supposed to find you. They weren't even supposed to know- not yet, anyway. You had planned for more time, hoped that Rhysand would be busy with his new babe, that Azriel wouldn't be around to dig into your secrets. They hadn't frequented the Court of Nightmares recently-- preoccupied with their perfect city and the three Made sisters, you assumed. Your own sister was never a worry with her trips to Hewn City being short and far between, usually accompanied by the three men you once loved so deeply.

Azriel's stare lingered in your mind. The hazel color bore into you, made you feel like the memory itself could grab you and drag you back to a past you couldn't escape. You had dreamt of those eyes, of conversations left unfinished, of explanations that never came. Seeing him, when you had been so unprepared, so exposed, was a burning reminder of what you had lost and what you had become in its wake.

You wanted to bury the past even further into your brain, find a crevasse unfilled and stuff every thought of them into it. But you knew it would be a futile attempt. You would never be able to outrun what haunted you, not when those ghosts were still alive.

Your head pounded. You felt the urge to sit and drink your thoughts away, to find Evadne and smoke her specialty herbs. But first, you needed to protect yourself, cover your tracks. Your muddy, messy, and obvious tracks.

The night air in Hewn City was thick with the stench of filth and decay. Dirty alleys echoed with the sounds of bawdy laughter, predatory and wolfish. Occasional sounds of distress from unseen fae pierced through the night, quickly drowned out within the chaos of the city. The ground was layered with grime, and every step felt like wading through a cesspool.

You moved through the twisted streets, a heavy hood on in an attempt to go unnoticed. Still, catcalls and jeers followed. C'mere sweet thing. You continued walking. The man followed. Bet you'd be even more interesting without those pesky clothes, wouldn't you? You grimaced, swallowing the bile that rose a the sound of the grating voice. Quickly, you moved forward, avoiding his sight. Your shoulders fell in relief when you heard his retreating footsteps, followed by loud drunken complaints about how you'd ran off like a tease.

As you approached the hidden building your father had recently taken space in, the atmosphere changed. Your heart instantly felt heavier, and you began to mentally prepare yourself for the interaction. The heavy door creaked open. Keir, surrounded by a select few of his men, looked up from the table where he sat. His eyes, sharp and piercing, bore into you as you entered-- stern gaze irritated by the intrusion.

"Keir," you addressed him with a feigned urgency, "I need to speak with you."

Instantly, anger flashed in his eyes.

"Show me respect." Keir demanded sharply.

"Forgive me," You quickly corrected. "May I speak with you? It's urgent."

Keir's gaze intensified, his eyes narrowing. "How rude of you not to say hello to my men," he sneered, emphasizing each word. "It seems you've forgotten all your manners."

You forced a strained smile, acknowledging the men with a cautious nod. "Hello," you offered.

You casted a wary gaze around the room. Each man looked like a nightmare, their large and intimidating frames were adorned with scars and grimy features that bore witness to countless battles. Some wore smirks that reeked of arrogance, while others openly eyed you up and down, their predatory gazes unsettling and intrusive. Suddenly, you felt 17 again-- bare, defenseless, and vulnerable; subject to the leering gazes of those who saw you as nothing more than an object. It was a feeling you thought you'd left behind, a discomfort that dredged up memories you wished to forget.

You felt dirty, a sense of defilement creeping over you. You were a prize in their eyes, irrespective of any respect they might harbor for your father. These men, loyal or not, saw an opportunity to showcase you as a possession, a symbol of conquest. The thought of how they might do it sent a shiver down your spine, and you recoiled from the mental images that threatened to invade your consciousness. In that moment, you yearned to escape the suffocating atmosphere, to break free from the repulsive feeling that clung to you like an indelible stain.

Keir leaned back in his chair, a twisted grin forming on his lips. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Your attention fixated on Thorne, one of your father's captains. You despised him-- despised the way he wore a sense of self-importance that trailed after him like a pet, despised how he spoke, even how he walked. His eyes scanned you slowly, sweeping up and down as if assessing your every vulnerability. The strength of his scrutiny ignited a simmering anger within you, and you gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to let your temper flare.

You envisioned an alternate reality – a world where consequences were fleeting, and you could seize control. The image of slamming Thorne's head against the table played vividly in your mind. The satisfying thud, the sudden silence that followed, and the triumph of asserting dominance over the predator before you.

But reality anchored you, and you took a deep breath as your fathers voice pulled you from your thoughts.

"Well? You've interrupted me, and now you've left me waiting.”

"I have news," you replied, a subtle unease settling in as you braced yourself for the next part.

"Well, speak," Keir gestured with impatience, and you sensed the collective gaze of the men fixed upon you. It dawned on you – this wasn't a private exchange. Your stage had expanded beyond just you and your father.

"I was just paid a visit by a certain spymaster," you began, your tone carefully modulated. You decided that you would keep Rhysand’s presence a secret— for now. It would bring up too much, too fast. One presence was enough. Azriel alone would do. Keir's gaze sharpened, and you noticed a subtle tensing in his posture.

"Oh, is that so?" He responded, his tone laced with a disdain that didn't go unnoticed. "And what did that deformed overgrown bat wish to talk to you about?"

You felt a strange primal urge to defend Azriel against his words. He doesn't need your protection, you thought, doesn't deserve it. But the same image from earlier came to your mind; where Thorne once was, your father had taken his place. With an internal struggle to maintain composure, you responded.

"He wished to speak to me about rumors of an uprising."

Your father perked up.

"And what did you say to this?" Keir questioned, his eyes narrowing, probing for information.

"I told him I had heard no such thing," you replied, choosing your words carefully. "That perhaps he had been listening to his shadows too much, started to hallucinate situations where he was needed."

As the words left your lips, an uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of your stomach. Each syllable felt like a burning confession, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. It was a calculated deception, a necessary statement, yet the words felt wrong – a sinister compromise that clawed at your conscience.

You needed to do this to survive, you reminded yourself, they deserve it. But nonetheless, it left a residue of self-loathing. You couldn't help but compare yourself to the men in the room – those vulturous gazes, the filth that clung to them like soil. The realization that you had willingly immersed yourself in their skills, ones of deceit and cruelty, left you feeling dirty-- like you had been tainted by the same darkness you claimed to despise.

Keir responded with a contemplative "Hmmm," and you seized the opportunity to further weave your narrative.

"I told him that there are always rumors in Hewn City." You paused for emphasis before adding, "He asked me to tell him if I heard anything else. I told him no."

Silence. You resisted the urge to look away from your fathers heavy gaze, but the idea of looking at any of the other men surrounded you was a worse fate.

"How can I trust you?"

You felt his skepticism hang in the air like a heavy fog, his eyes scrutinizing you for any sign of deceit.

The weight of his distrust settled on your shoulders, and you took a moment to consider the best way to allay his suspicions. As you looked at him, a twinge of pity tugged at you. Your father, for all of his power, was paranoid and weak. He trusted no one. And you couldn't help but feel sorry for the life he led – one constantly clouded by suspicion. But that pity quickly faded. Keir deserved to live in such uncertainty, deserved every bit of discomfort that it provided.

"I hate them too," you said with an energy that mirrored the intensity in his eyes. "I hope I have proved myself thus far, proved that I want nothing more than to see them get what they deserve."

A pregnant pause lingered in the room as Keir absorbed your words. You could almost hear the gears turning in his mind as he assessed the credibility of your declaration.

"Especially Morrigan."

By the way his face slightly relaxed, you knew your words had done their job, played into his vulnerabilities with a precision that left you feeling both triumphant and repulsed.

"I'll take this into account," He conceded, his gaze lingering on you. "I'm assuming he will not be making any more late-night visits to you?"

"No,” You shook your head. “If he does, you will know.”

"Very well," Keir acknowledged. "Leave us."

He dismissed you with a wave of his hand.

A part of you could have sworn you detected a glimmer of pride in his eyes – a sickening acknowledgment that you had played your part too well. The sense of dirtiness clung to you like a wet blanket as you navigated your way home. The streets felt colder and the shadows more ominous, as if each and every one of them were Azriel’s and they knew what you had done-- what you had become. You wished you could shed your skin, remove the evidence of your life here, become something cleaner, something purer.

In the deafening silence of your home, you curled up in bed and shut your eyes tightly. You tired mind slowly formed it’s own hands and pulled you to images of a life before, you thought of the stars, of Velaris, of Mor, and of Azriel and his hazel eyes.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

a/n: woo!!! its starting!!! im prewriting as much as i can for this so i can get it going but eeek!! im just setting some groundwork down so stick with me babes.

y/n will be the president of the “my father is the worst man alive and i am his favorite daughter” club and the queen of dealing with anger as a form of grief.

tag list (some weren’t letting me so lets hope it works)🫶🏻

@kalulakunundrum @janebirkln @thelov3lybookworm @secretlyhers @nightcourt-daydreaming @sidthedollface2 @gorlillaglue25 @abysshaven @historygeekqueen @acourtofbatboydreams @justdreamstars @darling006 @inloveallthetime @dr4g0ngirl

#azriel #azriel fanfiction #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #acotarfandom #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x reader #acotar x you #hewn city #night court #azriel spymaster #shadowsinger x reader #azriel fic

638 notes · View notes

merwgue · 4 months ago

Text

Why Feyre as High Lady Could Lead to the Night Court's Downfall (Or, How to Ruin a Court in 10 Easy Steps) comming from someone who is planning to study international relations and whos whole family is quite familiar with it:

Look, we all love Feyre. She's fierce, she's brave, and she can paint a mean flower. But let's be real: as High Lady of the Night Court, she's a Fucking diplomatic nightmare. If there were an award for "How to Piss Off Every High Lord and Their Neighboring Courts," she'd win it. Twice. Here's why Feyre's reign might just bring the Night Court crashing down faster than rhys can growl or cum to the image of his child

1. Explosive Temper and Poor Diplomacy Let’s talk about the High Lords meeting in A Court of Wings and Ruin. Remember that? Feyre’s blow-up at Beron wasn’t just a passionate defense—it was a major diplomatic fuck-up. Yes, Beron was being a total asshole, but diplomacy often means biting your tongue and playing the long game. Feyre's outburst could have easily cost them an alliance with the Autumn Court, potentially turning Beron into an outright enemy. With Hybern on the horizon, losing any potential allies could have been catastrophic. Instead of keeping things cool and trying to find common ground, she let her temper flare, risking everything Rhysand had worked for to keep the courts united. Feyre basically threw a damn match onto a pile of political dynamite.

2. Alienating Potential Allies Ah, the Summer Court fiasco. Remember when Feyre decided it was a good idea to steal from Tarquin? Not just any theft, but a "Hey, let's be friends—JK, I’m taking your most powerful magical artifact" kind of theft. Brilliant move. And then she had the nerve to act all shocked when Tarquin was pissed about it. "What do you mean you're mad I stole from you? We're supposed to be allies!" Gee, I wonder why Tarquin wasn’t thrilled about that little betrayal. It's like borrowing your friend's car and returning it on empty, with a dent in the side. And by "borrow," I mean grand theft auto. Feyre, maybe try not to screw over potential allies next time? Just a thought.

3. Emotional Decision-Making Feyre often lets her emotions drive her decisions. While being passionate isn't inherently bad, it becomes a problem when it overrides logic and strategy, especially in the high-stakes world of Prythian politics. The High Lords meeting is one instance, but it happens repeatedly. Her open hostility toward Tamlin, even if understandable on a personal level, didn't help the broader cause. By pushing him further away instead of seeking some form of truce, she risked driving him into Hybern's arms. A High Lady needs to think beyond personal grudges to what’s best for her people and her court, and Feyre struggles with that balance. You can't just say "screw it" and go off on people when the fate of your entire court is on the line.

4. Ignoring the Complexity of the Night Court And let's not forget the Night Court's lovely little secret: Hewn City. You know, that underground hellhole they basically keep under lock and key. Rhysand and Feyre are all "Oh, look at Velaris, it's so pretty and free!" Meanwhile, half their court is rotting in a glorified dungeon. And what's Feyre's big idea for dealing with Hewn City? Oh, right, pretend it doesn't exist. Smart. Because ignoring a potential uprising within your own court is definitely the way to keep things stable. It's like the French Revolution all over again—if the Night Court were France, then Feyre's approach is like Louis XVI ignoring the starving peasants while hosting extravagant parties. Eventually, ignoring the discontent and keeping people oppressed leads to revolution. Treating Hewn City like an inconvenient problem rather than addressing it is a recipe for disaster.

5. Undermining Rhysand’s Diplomacy Rhysand spent centuries mastering diplomacy—playing the long game, keeping everyone in check. And then comes Feyre, storming in like, "Oh, you spent centuries building these delicate alliances? Well, watch me fuck it up in five minutes." She's like that one friend who always says, "Hold my beer," right before doing something incredibly stupid. Rhys is trying to keep the court from crumbling, and Feyre's out there acting like diplomacy means "scream at the enemy until they go away." Newsflash: That’s not how this works. This isn't some street brawl where whoever yells the loudest wins. It's politics. You know, the art of not making enemies out of every living soul around you?

Conclusion Feyre's got the passion, the guts, and the fighting spirit of a warrior. But when it comes to actually leading a court? She’s like a bull in a china shop, if that bull also happened to have a grudge against every piece of porcelain in the room. Being High Lady isn’t about who's right in the heat of the moment; it's about playing the long game, keeping your people safe, and not, you know, burning bridges with every other court. If she keeps going down this path—alienating allies, ignoring the needs of half her own court, and letting emotions drive her decisions—the Night Court is in serious trouble. Feyre needs to understand that diplomacy isn’t about who can throw the best tantrum. It’s about avoiding a revolution and ensuring the stability of your people. Otherwise, the Night Court might fall not because of an external threat, but because its own leader is too busy screwing things up from the inside.

#feyre #feyre archeron #anti feyre #maybe?#idk the girls just stupid #anti rhys #anti rhysand #anti ic #night court #hewn city #pro nesta #pro tamlin #poor guy #i love my tamlin #pro valkyries #rhysand

176 notes · View notes