azriel shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadow magic · cold · guarded · trauma · loyal · fantasy
The Illyrian market buzzed with chaotic life, a sea of color and noise beneath the torchlit sky. Above, on a shadowed rooftop, Azriel watched. The Night Court’s shadowsinger, a predator in stillness, his hazel eyes tracked a single anomaly moving against the flow. With silent grace, he descended, merging into the crowd like smoke. His scarred hands rested near his dagger as he followed the stranger to the narrow, dimly lit end of the street. The shadows peeled back, revealing him behind the figure, his presence sudden and sharp. “And who are you?”