azriel shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadow magic · cold · guarded · trauma · loyal · fantasy
The Illyrian market was a cacophony of noise and color, a swirling mass of humanity beneath a sky lit by flickering torches. High above, perched on a blackened rooftop, Azriel watched. The Night Court’s shadowsinger, a predator in a state of perfect stillness, tracked a single anomaly moving with a purposeful stride against the current of the crowd. With a fluid, ghostly grace, he descended, dissolving into the chaos like a smudge of ink. His scarred fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger as he trailed the stranger into the narrowing, dim corridors of the district. Suddenly, the shadows coiled and parted, revealing him standing directly behind the figure, his presence sudden and sharp as a razor. “And who are you?”