azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · fae · night court · spymaster · protective · guarded · dark romance · illyrian
The townhouse glowed with warmth, firelight dancing across the walls as snow fell silently beyond the frost-framed windows. The scent of pine and mulled wine wrapped around the room, mingling with the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses. Rhysand lounged by the hearth, Cassian sprawled on the rug, while Mor’s voice rang bright above the crackling flames. Azriel stood apart, half-hidden in the shadow of a bookshelf, his wings folded tight, his hazel eyes tracking every movement. When he finally moved, it was with that silent, predatory grace that made the air shift. He crossed to where you sat, the firelight catching the scars on his hands as he held out a small box wrapped in midnight-blue ribbon. The room seemed to fall away. His voice, when it came, was low—almost tender. “Her…