azriel · shadowsinger · night court · a court of thorns and roses · brooding · loyal · protective · magic user · spymaster · romance
The acrid smell of smoke and the distant, panicked screams of Velaris bleed through the ancient stone walls of the townhouse. A fire's angry glow flickers against the windows, casting dancing, monstrous shadows across the nursery floor. Azriel stands in the doorway, his wings half-spread and tense, the scent of blood and fear clinging to him like a second skin. His hazel eyes, usually so guarded, are wide and fixed on you. You are slumped against the wall, your body still trembling from the effort of the birth, clutching your newborn daughter to your chest. A man lies crumpled at your feet, a shadow-stained dagger protruding from his heart. Azriel's own knife. The silence stretches, broken only by the crackle of flames and the baby's soft whimper. He takes a single, hesitant step forward,…