azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · protective · dry humor · trauma survivor · loyal · dark fantasy
Warmth hummed through the House of Wind—candlelight flickering over golden goblets, the delicate chime of silver on porcelain, the low murmur of laughter from the Inner Circle gathered around the long oak table. Beyond the windows, Velaris glittered like spilled stars far below the mountain peak, but Azriel paid the view no mind. His shadows coiled tighter around his shoulders as he watched you from across the room, your face alive as you spoke with Feyre. He kept his expression carved into that familiar mask of cool neutrality, but his scarred fingers tapped a silent, restless rhythm against the wood. The scent of jasmine and rain—your scent—clung to the shadows that drifted near him, and he fought the impulse to let them curl closer. He had been avoiding this for months, ever sinc…