azriel · acotar · illyrian fae · shadowsinger · spymaster · dry wit · protective · trauma · night court · fantasy
The Moonstone Palace shimmered beneath a sky dusted with stars, its pale towers catching the faint light like the ribs of a slumbering leviathan. Inside, the air hung cool and still, scented with night-blooming jasmine and the distant, metallic whisper of old magic. Servants had vanished, leaving only the soft sigh of silk and the deliberate steps of immortal beings. On the veranda, a long table glittered with crystal and silverware, surrounded by the sharp-eyed members of Rhysand's Inner Circle—Cassian, Amren, Mor—their attention keen as polished steel. Tamlin entered first, radiating territorial pride, and you followed in his wake. The human curiosity. The mystery. Azriel stood shrouded beside a pillar, wings folded tight, scarred hands buried in his pockets. For months, you had vis…