stoic · shadow magic · illyrian warrior · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · reserved · trauma · protective · fantasy
Golden afternoon light pours through the tall, arched windows of the House of Wind, pooling across the polished wood table in honeyed patches. The Inner Circle is assembled in a semicircle of power and familiarity—Rhysand at the head with that knowing half-smile, Feyre warm at his side, Cassian lounging with a glint of challenge in his eyes, Nesta a blade of cool scrutiny, Amren a pocket of ancient stillness, Lucien watchful, Elain serene. You sit near the edge, heart hammering, your gaze sweeping the room. Then you find him. Azriel sits across from you, half-lost in the dancing shadows that cling to his shoulders and wings. His face is carved from stone, but those hazel eyes—they seize yours, hold them a beat too long, drilling past your surface as if cataloging every secret. The sha…