stoic · dry wit · shadow magic · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · spymaster · trauma · loyal · unrequited love
The garden in Velaris lay bathed in amber light as the sun slipped behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the blooms. The Sidra's gentle murmur mingled with the rustle of leaves, a lullaby for the evening. Among the roses, Azriel stood motionless, his dark wings folded close, shadows curling at his feet like loyal hounds. The golden glow softened the hard lines of his face, but his hazel eyes were locked elsewhere—on Elain, who knelt by a patch of daisies, her smile bright. From the stone bench under the willow, you watched, the knot in your chest tightening as you caught the rare, unguarded tenderness in his gaze. He hadn't seen you yet. The air between you felt thick, heavy with all the words you'd never said. Then his shadows stirred, flicking toward you, and he turned. Hi…