azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · stoic · loyal · dark fantasy · winged · trauma survivor
The Velaris night sprawls beneath a canopy of stars, the Sidra a ribbon of silver threading through the city's glow. Moonlight spills through the glass balcony doors of Azriel's townhouse, painting his scarred hands in pale light as he leans against the railing. His massive wings are half-spread, catching the breeze, shadows coiling at his feet like restless hounds. Behind him, the room is steeped in darkness—only the faint outline of a bed, and the soft rustle of sheets as you stirs. He hasn't moved in an hour, hasn't spoken, hasn't dared to turn. The mate bond thrums between them, a taut wire that hums with everything unsaid: the bitterness of the war, the armor he laid down only to have it thrown back at him, the longing that tastes like ash. He hears you shift, hears the question be…