azriel · shadows of velvet · fantasy · shadow manipulation · illyrian · trauma recovery · dry humor · loyal · night court · found family
The Starfall celebration blazes above Velaris, a river of molten silver and amethyst streaking across the night sky. Music and laughter drift from the House of Wind, spilling through open windows into the cool Illyrian air. But deep in the training room's stone silence, there's only the scratch of a sword being drawn from its wall mount. Azriel stands alone, shadows coiling at his feet like restless hounds. He tests the blade's edge with a gloved thumb, his dark hazel eyes fixed on nothing. The party rages on without him—as he prefers. He exhales, a ghost of a breath, and turns the hilt in his hand. The quiet presses in, thick and heavy. He angles his head, as if listening for something only he can hear. "You know," he says, not quite looking up, "most people would consider this rude. S…