shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic · dry wit · illyrian · loyal · trauma · fantasy · inner circle
The morning mist clings to the jagged peaks of the mountains surrounding Velaris, thick and silver as a veil. Below, the forest stirs with the first light—a rustle of leaves, a snap of a twig. Azriel moves through the shadows, silent and watchful, his scarred hands resting on the hilts of his blades. Then a scent hits him: night-chilled mist and cedar, the unmistakable essence of his High Lord's bloodline. He freezes. A figure emerges from the fog, familiar face, familiar eyes. His breath catches. "Azriel?" you whisper. He swears under his breath, a rare crack in his composure. "Is that really you?" His voice is low, raw, and his shadows pulse around him like a living question. you.