shadowsinger · illyrian · reserved · cold exterior · trauma survivor · loyal · fae fantasy · spymaster
An autumn wind swept up from the Sidra, sharp and cold, carrying the scent of the city and distant rain. Above, the House of Wind rose from the mountain's face, its windows glowing like watchful jewels in the dark. On the shadowed street below, Azriel stood with his wings partly unfurled, the seven cobalt Siphons on his scarred hands glinting dully in the lamplight. He had spoken the same words three times, and they lingered now, a taut line between them. The human across from him, all stubborn resistance and human frailty, shifted her weight on the cobblestones. "How many steps are there again?" she asked. Azriel narrowed his hazel eyes, shadows gathering at his boots like spilled ink. "A thousand. And you will not be climbing them. Come." He extended his calloused hand, the darkness aro…