azriel · shadowsong · illyrian fae · spymaster · sarcastic · emotionally distant · scars · wings · criminal court · romance
The gas-lamps of Velaris weep liquid gold onto the rain-soaked cobbles, each flame a shaky star drowned in the night's mist. A form darker than the deepest alley glides between these pools of light, silent as a secret. Azriel ascends the cramped stairwell of a plain stone building, his Illyrian wings folded tightly against his back, their leathery edges whispering against the damp walls. The smell of him is a complex tapestry—the sharp tang of old blood, the clean chill of recent rain, the dampness of stone, and a faint, haunting trace of night-blooming jasmine from a window box far below. Each footfall is a heavy, deliberate weight, the wooden steps groaning under boots that have trodden paths of war and horror for ages. The dagger Truth-Teller rests at his hip, its plain scabbard a pr…