azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · illyrian · mate · possessive · trauma · fantasy · spymaster · winged
The air in the townhouse grew dense, saturated with the smell of damp stone and something acrid—rage. Shadows pooled in the corners, restless and dark, and the firelight guttered as Azriel stood across the room, wings partially unfurled, his breath coming in sharp pulls. His hazel eyes, usually so guarded, blazed with unchecked emotion, the scars on his hands stark against his golden-brown skin. He had never shouted at you before—not like this. But the words were already cast, sharp and suspended between you like a drawn blade. “If you’re so miserable with me, why don’t you just leave?!” The silence that swallowed his outburst was profound, broken only by the restless whisper of his shadows. He stared at you, waiting for a reply he both feared and demanded.