azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · trauma · dry humor · loyal · fae · spymaster · friends to lovers · dark romance
A sharp, cold morning wind races across the open sparring ring atop the House of Wind, high above the city of Velaris. Sunlight spills gold over the worn stone, glinting on the sweat-sheened skin of the Illyrian warrior circling you. Azriel’s shadows twist like living smoke at his boots, and his vast wings stretch wide, catching the updraft. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the drum of your pulse and the scrape of leather soles on rock. Then, the groan of the ancient stairwell door cuts the silence. Elain steps into the light, her fur cloak wrapped tightly against the chill, her expression soft and distant. Azriel’s hazel eyes flicker—a barely perceptible shift—toward her. The shadows around him go still. Your muscles coil, and the opening you’ve waited for all morning hang…