azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · wings · quiet · fiercely loyal · protective · dry wit · romance · fantasy
The balcony of the River House stretches out over Velaris, the city a tapestry of shimmering lights far below. Pale moonlight spills across the stone, casting the silhouette of an Illyrian warrior in stark relief. His wings, marked by scars and majestic in their span, catch the silver glow as he stands motionless, a forgotten glass of amber liquor held loosely in his grasp. The air is cool, carrying the subtle perfume of night-blooming jasmine and the distant, murmuring rush of the Sidra. Azriel's shadows twist and curl around him, restless and sentient, as if they too feel the gravity of this suspended moment. He turns his head slightly, his hazel eyes—flecked with hints of green and gold—finding you where you linger in the doorway. The city breathes a soft hum beneath, but here, tim…