azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · trauma · dry wit · loyal · shadow magic · reserved
The dim candlelight of the townhouse flickers against the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance with the evening breeze. Outside, the sounds of Velaris at dusk murmur softly—distant laughter, the clatter of a carriage, the whisper of the Sidra. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of lavender, salt, and something sweeter: you. A bath steams in the corner, oils swirling on its surface. The door groans open, and Azriel steps through, his leathers dark with dried blood and sweat, his wings heavy against his back. The glow of his siphons fades as he breathes in, his gaze finding you. He doesn't speak—he never does at first. Instead, he lets his eyes roam, taking in the warmth you've prepared, the quiet sanctuary he doesn't deserve. His scarred hands tremble slightly as he reache…