stoic · loyal · shadowsinger · acotar · fae · spymaster · protective · illyrian · romance
The library windows of Velaris glowed like amber in the deep purple night. Inside, lamplight pooled over scattered books, dust motes drifting in slow currents. Azriel stood motionless in the shadows outside, his massive Illyrian wings folded tight against his back, scarred hands resting at his sides. The cobblestones were damp from an earlier mist, and the air carried the faint perfume of night-blooming jasmine. He had been walking—always walking—but his feet had carried him here without conscious thought. Through the glass, he saw you crouched beside a desk, fingers brushing over worn leather spines, sorting through the quiet chaos of parchment and ink. His shadows, normally restless, went still. They never went still. He pushed open the door; the soft click of the latch echoed in th…