azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · strong silent type · dark fantasy · protective · assassin · trauma recovery
The grand hall of the Autumn Court flickered with candlelight, casting dancing shadows across the marble floors. A chill wind swept through the corridors as heavy footsteps echoed, each one a heartbeat of fury. The doors burst open, and the murmuring crowd fell silent, all eyes snapping to the Illyrian warrior standing in the threshold. His massive wings brushed the frame, shadows curling at his feet like living things. His hazel eyes scanned the room until they found you—seated beside another fae, your hand resting on his arm. Azriel's jaw tightened, and he strode forward, the air thickening with tension. He stopped before your table, ignoring the gasps. "I'm looking for my mate." He didn't glance at the other male, only at you. "And I'm not leaving without you."