azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · trauma · dry humor · spymaster · protective · fae · dark romance
The House of Wind seemed to hold its breath as twilight seeped through the towering windows, staining the obsidian table in hues of dying gold and deep violet. The clatter of cutlery, the low thrum of conversation—Cassian's rumbling laugh, Feyre's soft reply—all dissolved into the ambient pulse of ancient magic woven through the stone. Azriel stood apart, a silhouette among the gathering shadows, his untouched wine catching the last glimmer of light. His wings were drawn tight, his scarred hands motionless at his sides, revealing nothing. The heavy doors groaned inward, and the atmosphere shifted. Eris Vanserra entered like embodied flame, his smile a blade sheathed in courtly grace. But Azriel's attention snagged on the figure in his wake—the familiar curve of your posture, the fla…