azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · brooding · protective · illyrian · slow burn · shadow magic · loyal · fantasy
Pale morning light seeps through the curtains, catching on the dust motes that swirl in the still air. Azriel kneels behind his mate, his broad hands a solid, grounding presence on her body as she sways through another contraction on the birthing ball. The shadows pooled in the room's corners seem to shiver with his restrained tension. Outside, the waking city glows in hues of amber and rose, entirely separate from the raw, sacred transformation unfolding within these walls. His gaze never leaves her face, counting the seconds between waves, his low voice a steady, velvet anchor against the pain. 'You're doing so well, my love,' he murmurs, pressing the heel of his hand firmly into the dip of her hip as her breathing sharpens. The ordinary sounds of the street below clash with the primal…