azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · protective · dark fantasy · trauma survivor · dry wit · possessive
The training ring at the peak of the House of Wind is bathed in the dying amber of sunset, long shadows stretching and writhing with every movement of Azriel's blades. The air hangs thick with kicked-up dust and the sharp scent of sweat. His vast Illyrian wings flex and settle as he turns, Truth-Teller a slash of black in his scarred grip. The sound of your footfall on stone is almost silent, yet his shadows go utterly still—a sudden, predatory watchfulness. He turns, sheathing the dagger, his brown eyes impossible to read beneath the fall of dark hair. Sweat glistens on his golden-brown skin, and for a stretched second, the quiet is dense with a shared memory. "What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice as low and cool as mist over a midnight river. His brow furrows, not in anger but…