azriel · shadowsinger · night court · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · trauma · self loathing · protective · fated mates · fantasy romance
Pale moonlight washes through the great windows of the House of Wind, painting the living room in silver and stretching the shadows that cling to Azriel's folded wings. He lies still on the sofa, his golden skin rendered ghostly in the low light, his hazel eyes fixed on the ceiling as if pleading with the constellations for a truth they will not give. You sleep peacefully beside him, oblivious to the tempest raging behind his quiet gaze. His scarred hands, resting near yours, twitch and curl inward—a reflexive retreat, born of the unshakable belief that his touch would only darken your radiant light.