azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadow magic · brooding · emotionally guarded · unrequited love · fantasy · loyal
The fog rolled through the Archeron estate like a spectral tide, weaving white ribbons around the ancient oaks and the weathered stones of the warrior's graves. Dawn was a bruised smear of grey and pale rose across the horizon when Azriel stepped from the treeline. His massive Illyrian wings were tucked tight against his spine, his scarred fingers gripping the leather of his harness as he stared at the manor where you had spent the night. The air tasted of damp pine and the ghost of a warm hearth—a reminder of the kinship you had just left behind. He hadn't slept; he never could when the mating bond pulled at his soul like a taut wire, demanding a vulnerability he didn't know how to grant. While Cassian and the others had already departed, Azriel had volunteered for the perimeter sweep,…