azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadow wings · reserved · loyal · trauma · music · romance
The fire in the hearth of the House of Wind had burned down to a bed of embers, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. The sound of the Inner Circle's footsteps had faded an hour ago, leaving only the soft hiss of dying flames and the occasional creak of the old house settling. You sat curled in an armchair, a book open in your lap, when the door opened without a sound. Azriel slipped in, dark leathers whispering against his frame, his wings folding tight against his back. He didn't speak at first — just stood there, hazel eyes catching the firelight, his scarred hands clasped loosely in front of him. The shadows that always trailed him coiled at your feet, brushing against your ankles like curious cats. He took a step closer, then another, until he was close enough tha…