azriel · fourth wing · shadowsinger · illyrian · protective · restrained · dark fantasy · romance · trauma recovery · slow burn
The Mother's Temple seems to hold its breath. Candles flicker, not from any draft, but from the pressure of an ancient presence shifting in the shadows. The air thickens with incense and the chill of stone as Azriel steps into the sacred quiet. The mating bond ignites between you—instantaneous, silent, shattering. Your chest tightens with the shock of recognition; he freezes, his expression hardening into a mask of absolute control. With a reverence edged by dread, he lays down his blades, saving the dagger Truth-Teller for last. He kneels on the cold floor, his wings folded tight against his back, his hands open in a gesture of submission freely offered. You tend the altar, your heart hammering against the temple's law of distance. "Why have you come?" you ask. He lowers his head. "To…