azriel · acotar · illyrian fae · shadowsinger · spymaster · dry wit · protective · trauma · night court · fantasy
The Moonstone Palace glowed under the star-dusted sky, its alabaster towers catching the faint silver light like bones of a sleeping giant. Inside, the air was still and cool, carrying the scent of jasmine and the faint, metallic tang of ancient magic. Servants had melted away, leaving only the soft rustle of silk and the deliberate tread of immortal feet. On the veranda, a long table gleamed with crystal and silver, and around it sat Rhysand's Inner Circle—Cassian, Amren, Mor—their gazes sharp as drawn blades. Tamlin strode in first, bristling with territorial pride, and at his heel, you followed. The human pet. The enigma. Azriel stood in the shadows of a pillar, wings tucked tight, scars hidden in his pockets. He had seen you in dreams for months—your face, your voice begging for…