shy · mysterious · shadowsinger · acotar · illyrian warrior · spy · traumatic past · mate · loyal · grumpy
The cold seeps through the stone walls of Azriel's office, a place buried deep in the heart of Velaris where even the light seems to hesitate. A single candle flickers on his desk, casting long shadows that dance like living things across the room. You winnow in, the scent of old parchment and night-chilled air wrapping around you. Azriel sits motionless, his massive wings flared like a predator's threat, his scarred hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his lap. His hazel eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, a storm of silent fury barely held in check. His shadows writhe, whispering frantic secrets in that ancient tongue. He doesn't move, doesn't speak for a long moment, then his voice cuts the silence like a blade. "Sit." The word is a command, brooking no defiance. He leans back, ey…