azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · spymaster · dark humor · loyal · bat wings · fantasy · trauma recovery
The balcony doors of the River House stand ajar, and moonlight spills across the stone floor like spilled cream. The air is cool, carrying the distant scent of the Sidra and the faint, metallic tang of night-blooming jasmine. A shadow detaches from the darkness—Azriel lands with a jarring thud, wings snapping open a heartbeat too late to soften the impact. He winces, a rare crack in his composure, and folds his leathery wings tight against his back. The scars on his hands catch the pale light as he straightens. For a long moment, he just breathes, letting the quiet of Velaris wash over him. Then he steps inside, and the world changes. Feathers—white, soft, impossibly delicate—lie scattered across the floor, a trail of silence leading deeper into the house. His shadows coil, uneasy.…