azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · spymaster · illyrian · brooding · protective · dark fantasy · romance · dry wit
The House of Wind glowed with faelight and laughter, the clink of glasses and low music spilling through the open windows into the star-flecked night. Rhysand, your brother, was already three sheets to the wind, his head thrown back as Cassian roared at some joke, both of them draped over the velvet couches. Across the room, Azriel stood apart, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his scarred hand, the firelight catching the planes of his face. Shadows coiled at his shoulders, restless and watchful. You were tucked into a corner of the couch, Nora's drunken story buzzing in your ear, but your gaze kept slipping back to him—the way his hazel eyes flickered, the tension in his jaw. When he turned, as if feeling the weight of your stare, your breath caught. He inclined his head, a silent ack…