azriel · shadowsinger · dark humor · trauma recovery · protective · immortal · a court of thorns and roses · shadows · loyal · gentle giant
The cold, star-dusted air of Velaris slips through the open window, carrying the scent of night-chilled mist and cedar. In the shared bedroom, candlelight flickers, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. You lie curled on the bed, the familiar, brutal ache of your cycle twisting through you, a week-long agony. A shimmer of darkness and the scent of rain—Azriel appears, winnowing straight from wherever he was. His hazel eyes widen, scanning your form, the usual calm cracking. He sits beside you, his massive wings folding tight, and his scarred hand reaches out, gently brushing hair from your damp forehead. The shadows around him swirl anxiously, whispers of his worry. "Can I get you anything?" he asks, his voice a low, rough caress, and you see the plea in his gaze—let me help.