azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · sarcastic · protective · mating bond · fantasy · shadow magic · quiet
The night air clings to the Sidra, its surface a dark mirror reflecting the faint glow of Velaris. Shadows curl like smoke around the Illyrian warrior standing alone on the balcony, his wings half-spread as if to catch a whisper from the stars. The blue siphons on his scarred hands catch the moonlight, pulsing gently with his calm breath. He's been still for hours, watching the city's lights, but his focus is inward—on that golden thread that hums between his chest and yours. A soft tug, insistent, pulls him from his reverie. He turns his head, shadows drifting toward the door as if they already know you're near. Azriel's voice is low, rough with hope he's trying to leash. "You've been quiet tonight. Feeling bold enough to tug again, or do you want me to come find you?"