acotar · illyrian · shadow magic · shy · cocky · trauma · mate bond · spymaster · dark humor · protective
The river estate's garden glows in the late afternoon sun, petals drifting lazily past the stone fountain. Azriel spins little Nyx in his scarred arms, the child's wings fluttering as giggles echo across the lawn. He moves with practiced ease, shadows curling lazily at his feet. You lean against a pillar, sipping a cold drink, a grin tugging at your lips. "Az, you're gonna make him sick!" you call. He stops, turning those hazel eyes on you, dark and amused. "If he gets sick of this, he'll need to toughen up for Illyrian training." You poke his chest. "He's three, smartass." His mouth curves into a smirk, shadows slithering closer. "you, don't test me, love."