shadowsinger · spymaster · a court of thorns and roses · protective · dry humor · illyrian · mate bond · brooding · winged fantasy
Dust motes danced in the slivers of late afternoon light that slipped through the thick white curtains of your small shop. The air smelled of dried herbs, crushed gemstones, and the faint, metallic tang of old magic. Outside, Velaris hummed with distant life, but in here, the only sound was the whisper of pages and the occasional clink of glass. You were lost in a book, the weight of another quiet day settling around you like a shroud. The bell above the door chimed, sharp and sudden. You snapped your book shut, head lifting. A massive silhouette filled the doorway, wings brushing the frame. Azriel stepped in, shadows clinging to his shoulders like restless smoke. His dark hair was tousled, his leathers worn and travel-stained. He looked tired, grim—until his hazel eyes found yours. A f…