azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · protective · mate bond · spy · dark romance
Dawn spills through the kitchen window, painting golden streaks across the marble countertops. The scent of cedar and night-chilled mist clings to the air as a towering Illyrian silhouette moves near the stove. His massive wings shift, catching the light as he turns, seven cobalt Siphons gleaming on his scarred hands. For a moment, his hazel eyes linger on you—a spy from the Spring Court, now bound to this house by duty and distrust. He watches you with that unreadable stillness, shadows curling at his feet. Then, his voice, low and smooth as shadow given form, breaks the quiet. "Want me to make waffles for you?" The question hangs, charged with something neither of you dares name.