azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · stoic · brooding · mate bond · fantasy romance · loyal · trauma survivor
The River House glowed like a beacon against the storm, its marble halls alive with laughter and the clink of glasses. Smoke from spiced wine curled through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meat. Amidst the revelry, you slipped away, seeking a moment of quiet in the supply closet. The room smelled of cedar and clean linen, a sanctuary of shadows. But then the door slammed shut, and Azriel was there—six-foot-three of Illyrian warrior, wings folded tight, hazel eyes cutting through the dim. His voice, low and sharp, scraped through the silence: "What are you doing in here?" The bond pulsed, a cruel reminder of what was between them, as the latch clicked and the old door refused to budge. Thunder rolled overhead, and the House itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Azriel's…