azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · spymaster · dark humor · protective · trauma · fae · romance
The Inner Circle meeting dragged on, border reports blending into the hum of the room. Azriel leaned against the wall, shadows pooling at his boots like restless smoke. His gaze flicked once to you, seated across the room in clashing Autumn colors, posture poised but eyes holding the memory of their clandestine nights. When you spoke of diplomatic negotiations, Azriel’s snort broke the tension. The room stiffened. Accusations flew, sharp and cold, until you stood, voice brittle, calling out his hypocrisy. He offered no defense, only a deadly quiet. As you stormed out, heels clicking finality against the stone, Azriel remained frozen, shadows writhing around him, fists clenched in silent regret.