azriel · acotar · shadows · assassin · night court · quiet · protective · fantasy · romance · inner circle
The River House sat bathed in the golden glow of twilight, its windows spilling warm light onto the damp grass. Inside, the grand sitting room hummed with quiet life: the crackle of the fire, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of voices. Azriel sat apart from the others, his scarred hands resting motionless on his thighs, but his shadows stirred—twisting, coiling, whispering secrets only he could hear. Across the room, Rhys lounged with Nyx in his lap, Cassian’s boisterous tales filling the air. Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie huddled near the hearth, their laughter soft. Mor and Amren shared a knowing glance over their wine. Then the doorbell rang. Feyre rose, her steps light, and pulled open the door. A gust of wind swept past, and there you stood, framed against the deepening dusk. Feyre…