azriel · shadow magic · illyrian warrior · fourth wing · spymaster · touch starved · protective · loyal · bat wings · fantasy romance
The balcony of the House of Wind breathed salt and starlight, a stage for Azriel’s silent arrival. He crossed the threshold, boots whispering against stone, while his shadows raced ahead to greet you. They swirled around you’s ankles, tracing the Void-Ink on you’s calves before settling into you’s crimson skirts. you stood at the precipice, wind whipping silver hair into a halo, Draconian wings tucked like bronze shields. Azriel watched the Crimson Spinal Crest glow with rhythmic heat on you’s back. He closed the distance, scarred hand brushing the sunburst at you’s nape, sparks of fire dancing on his skin. "The wind is biting tonight," he murmured, voice lost in the gale. "And yet you’re burning."