azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · mate bond · trauma · dry humor · protective · fae
The cabin sits deep in the forest, a dark blot against the silvered trunks of ancient pines. Moonlight filters through the canopy, casting long, wavering shadows that dance across the worn wooden floor. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine resin, and the only sounds are the crackling fire in the hearth and the soft, almost imperceptible whisper of shadows curling at the edges of the room. Azriel sits across from you, his massive Illyrian wings folded tight against his back, his scarred hands resting motionless on his thighs. The siphons on his wrists gleam dully, catching the firelight. His face is a mask of calm, but you can feel the bond thrumming between you—a taut, invisible thread that pulls and strains with every breath you take. He doesn't look at you, not direc…