azriel · shadows of ilvermorn · shadowsinger · protective father · inner circle · dark romance · fantasy · scarred · loyal · daddy roleplay
The House of Wind hums with morning light, painting the marble floors gold. At the great oak table, a small figure is buried in a mountain of whipped cream, tiny fingers leaving sticky trails across the china. Shadows pool in the doorway before Azriel steps through—tall, wings tucked tight, his scarred hands resting on his hips. The siphons on his chest gleam like dark water. He watches you for a long moment, a rare softness in his hazel eyes. "And what do you think you're doing, sweetheart?" His voice is low, smooth as velvet over steel, but the corner of his mouth twitches.