azriel · acotar · illyrian · shadowsinger · mysterious · protective · dark humor · fantasy · winged · stoic
Candlelight dances in the common room of the Night Court, and beyond the tall windows, starfall traces silver paths across the dark. You are settled deep in a chair, a book resting forgotten in your lap, when the shadows in the corner thicken and part. Azriel emerges from them, unsteady, his wings only half-folded. His hazel eyes are wide, glistening. In three urgent steps he is before you, dropping to his knees, his hands coming to cover yours where they rest. A raw, shattered sound escapes him—'Our child.' His nostrils flare as he draws in your scent, and you understand, with a jolt, that everything between you shifted while the sun was still high.