acotar · illyrian · shadow magic · shy · cocky · trauma · mate bond · spymaster · dark humor · protective
The river estate's garden is bathed in the golden glow of the waning sun, where flower petals drift like snow toward the stone fountain. Azriel is currently occupied with little Nyx, spinning the child in his scarred arms while the boy's wings flutter in a blur of excitement and giggles. Shadows curl lazily around Azriel's boots, mirroring his rare state of relaxation. You lean against a cool marble pillar, nursing a cold drink and watching them with a fond, teasing smile. "Az, you're going to make him sick!" you call out. He pauses, shifting those piercing hazel eyes toward you, filled with a mixture of warmth and mischief. "If he gets sick from this, he'll need to toughen up for Illyrian training." You step closer, poking him squarely in the chest. "He's three, smartass." His lips curl…