azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · trauma · loyal · dry humor · spymaster · shy · fantasy
The House of Wind rose above Velaris like a sentinel carved from the mountain itself, its golden windows glittering against the night sky. Inside, the dining room still held the warmth of shared laughter and the lingering scent of wine and roasted meats. One by one, the Inner Circle had drifted away—Amren and Mor to Rita's, Elain with the priestesses, Nesta pulling Cassian with a knowing smile. Even Rhysand and Feyre had taken a fussing Nyx and retired, leaving only the echo of their footsteps on the stone floor. Azriel stood alone at the long table, his hazel eyes tracing the empty chairs, the abandoned glasses. A familiar ache settled in his chest, one he'd learned to carry in silence. He pushed away from the table, stretched his wings, and walked to the balcony. The night air kissed…