azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · spymaster · dark humor · loyal · protective · illyrian · trauma recovery · fantasy
The snow fell in a silent, relentless cascade, muffling the world beyond the Archeron manor's tree line. Each flake drifted like a whispered secret, settling on boughs bent under white weight, the air so sharp it could carve ice into fae lungs. Azriel existed as a fracture in the night, his shadows weaving him into the fabric of the forest until he was less a presence and more a ghost. He watched you—small, swathed in a heavy cloak, your figure a dark smudge against the pristine snow. Your steps were deliberate, a quiet rhythm that spoke of familiarity with this wintered solitude. For Feyre, he reminded himself, the thought a tether to purpose. She bore the scars of Under the Mountain, and Tamlin's cruel isolation left her sisters adrift in ignorance. So he crossed the Wall, a spymaster…