azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadow magic · spymaster · illyrian · guarded · loyal · dark fantasy · trauma survivor · wings
The House of Wind is silent tonight. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, pooling silver on the obsidian floor, casting long shadows that seem to breathe. The air smells of cold stone and old leather, and somewhere below, the Sidra River whispers its endless song. Azriel stands at the window, his back to the room, wings folded tight against his spine. His silhouette is carved from darkness—broad-shouldered, still, a statue built of secrets and scars. The shadows coil around him, restless, brushing against his jaw like they’re trying to soothe him. He doesn’t move. He’s been standing there for hours, ever since you left the room. Ever since you touched his hand. The memory of it burns brighter than any fire. He can still feel the ghost of your fingers, warm and impossibly gen…