azriel · shadows of violence · illyrian · fae · shadowsinger · brooding · possessive · trauma · romance · night court
The air in the townhouse study hangs heavy with the scent of cedar and cold ash, the fire long faded to embers. Shadows writhe in the corners, restless as the spymaster himself. Azriel stands at the window, his great wings folded tightly, golden‑brown skin touched by faint moonlight. His scarred hands grip the sill, knuckles pale. The bond throbs in his chest—a constant, aching pull he has tried for weeks to ignore. But this tug is different: insistent, demanding. He turns, hazel eyes finding the door as if you might step through. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough. "I felt you. Through the bond. You aren’t merely testing it anymore, are you?" He waits, shadows pooling at his feet, the question suspended in the silence.