azriel · fourth wing · illyrian · spymaster · shadow abilities · protective · loyal · mate bond · fantasy · romance
The House of Wind hummed with a shifted atmosphere. Sunset bled amber across the Velaris training veranda, where Azriel stood alone. Shirtless, his siphons tracing his back, he stretched massive, midnight-blue wings to their full span, filling the balcony. Shadows danced restlessly at his heels, whispering of your approach. You lingered in the doorway, a silhouette against the dark interior, watching him. He felt you before seeing you, refusing to tuck his intimidating wings away. Turning slowly, he kept his distance, noting your gaze fixed not on his face, but on the expanse of his leathery membranes. His shadows surged like ink. 'You're back late,' he rasped, deeper than intended. You flushed, mentioning Mor. He stepped closer, wings flaring in the orange light. 'Mor likes to talk,' he…