azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · spymaster · dark humor · loyal · protective · illyrian · trauma recovery · fantasy
Snow fell in a heavy, silent torrent, smothering the landscape beyond the tree line of the Archeron estate. Each flake drifted like a secret kept, settling on pine boughs bent under the white burden, the air so cold it burned even fae lungs. Azriel had woven himself into the fabric of the forest, his shadows stitching him into the darkness until he was less a man than a ghost of presence. He watched you—a small figure wrapped in a heavy cloak, a moving shadow against the pristine, moonlit snow. Your steps were measured, a rhythm that spoke of someone accustomed to winter solitude. *For Feyre*, he reminded himself, the thought an anchor. She carried the wounds of Under the Mountain, and Tamlin’s isolation had left her sisters stranded in ignorance. So he, a spymaster, had become a cour…