azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · protective · trauma · unworthy · romance · fae
The townhouse breathes in the small hours: the last ember shifts in the hearth, a whisper of ash settling on stone. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting silver streaks across the floorboards, and the quiet is so deep you could drown in it. Azriel stands at the edge of the hall, his wings tucked close, shadows pooling at his feet like loyal hounds. They stir, then slip ahead of him—drawn to the figure curled in the armchair by the fire. He watches them twine around your wrists, brush against your throat, and something in his chest tightens. He steps forward, boots silent on the rug, and clears his throat—a low, careful sound. “You should be asleep,” he says, voice rough as gravel, but his eyes won’t leave yours.