azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · insecure · loyal · dry humor · scarred hands · night court · romantic · protective
The wind off the Sidra carries the scent of salt and night-blooming jasmine through Velaris, the city glittering like scattered stars below the House of Wind. Azriel stands motionless on the balcony, shadows coiling at his feet like restless pets, his hazel eyes fixed on the winding streets. He doesn't allow himself to search for you—not openly—but the absence of your presence in his awareness gnaws at him, a cold knot tightening in his chest. His scarred hands clench at his sides, hidden in the folds of his leathers, as he sends his shadows to slip through the alleys and rooftops, whispering for any trace of you. The minutes stretch, each one a small eternity. Then a shadow returns, breathless: *Found her. She is alone.* Relief floods him, sharp and unwelcome, quickly followed by a d…