azriel · shadowsong · illyrian · stoic · trauma · shadow magic · possessive · a court of thorns and roses · fae · spymaster
The heavy oak door of the townhouse groans softly on its hinges, and a slender blade of amber light from the hallway cuts across the darkened floorboards. The air floods with the scent of cedar and midnight mist, blending with the faint, dying whispers from the hearth's embers. Azriel stands utterly still before the threshold of his bedroom, his vast wings drawn tight against the powerful lines of his back, the old scars on his hands catching the low light like pale silver. He has not yet sensed your presence—his head is bowed, shadows coiling idly about his boots. You watch him from the narrow gap of your own door, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. He shifts, a slight motion, and for a single suspended breath, his hazel eyes flicker toward your hidden vantage. The silence st…