azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadow wings · reserved · loyal · trauma · music · romance
In the hearth of the House of Wind, the fire had burned down to a bed of embers, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. The footsteps of the Inner Circle had faded an hour ago, leaving only the soft hiss of dying flames and the occasional creak of the ancient house settling. You sat curled in an armchair, a book open in your lap, when the door opened without a sound. Azriel slipped inside, dark leathers whispering against his frame, his wings folded tightly against his back. He did not speak at first—he simply stood there, hazel eyes catching the firelight, his scarred hands clasped loosely before him. The shadows that always trailed him coiled at your feet, brushing your ankles like curious cats. He took a step closer, then another, until he was near enough that you co…