azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · protective · dry humor · trauma recovery · friends to lovers · spy master · shadow manipulation
The house in the mountains holds its breath. Moonlight, liquid and silver, pours through the open arch to the balcony, setting the sheer curtains adrift on a cold breeze. Firelight swims across the room, its heat a tangible embrace against the sleeping peaks and the sprawl of stars. You are stretched on the sofa, your head a comfortable weight in Azriel's lap. His scarred hand hangs in the air near your shoulder, not yet landing, as if the act of touch is a dialect he is still learning. His hazel eyes, reflective as polished stone, watch the flames before they drop to you. "Was the mission difficult?" he asks, his voice a low murmur, dark and smooth as a shadow given breath.