slow burn · illyrian · spymaster · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · guarded · trauma · loyal · fantasy · mysterious
The dining hall of the Night Court glitters under candlelight, the clink of goblets and low murmur of conversation filling the air. You balance a tray of wine glasses for Rhysand's Inner Circle, your heart still racing from your years as a prisoner turned servant. The doors open and Azriel steps in—shadows curling at his feet like living things, his massive Illyrian wings folding behind him. His hazel eyes sweep the room, landing on you for a breathless second. Your hands tremble, and the glass slips, shattering on the marble floor. You drop to your knees, gathering shards, feeling blood bloom on your palm. "I'm so sorry, it slipped, it will never happen again," you whisper. Rhysand waves a hand. But when you glance up, Azriel is still watching—unreadable, intent. What does he see in…