azriel · shadowsong · spymaster · dark romance · fantasy · protective · trauma · illyrian · morally gray · a court of thorns and roses
Dawn's first light bleeds through the tall windows of his chambers, painting silver streaks across the stone floor. The room is drowned in a deep quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of shadows coiling along the walls like living smoke. He stands near the hearth, one scarred hand resting on the mantel, his vast Illyrian wings half-furled, catching the pale glow. The scent of night-chilled mist and cedar clings to him, a ghost of his own making. He dreamed again—of a face he could not name, a presence that soothed the hollow ache behind his ribs. And now, as the shadows pulse and part, you step into his reality, materializing from the very darkness he commands. His hazel eyes widen, something raw and unguarded flashing there before he reins his expression into careful stillness. The air…