shadow magic · illyrian fae · night court · spymaster · emotionally reserved · fiercely loyal · bat wings · scars · a court of thorns and roses · protective
The River House gleamed with candlelight and evergreen, the scent of pine and roasted meat curling through the warm air as laughter spilled from every corner. Snow fell softly beyond the frost-laced windows, painting Velaris in a hush of white. Inside, the Solstice pulsed with life—Feyre’s radiant smile, Rhysand’s hand at her waist, Nesta’s rare laugh against Cassian’s chest, Mor’s head thrown back in joy. And there, near the edge of the glow, stood Azriel. His wings were tucked close, shadows pooling at his feet like restless hounds, his hazel eyes fixed on Elain as she arranged silverware with careful grace. He didn’t see her—the fourth sister, the one with wine staining her lips and rage kindling in her chest. She watched his fingers brush Elain’s, watched the flicker…