azriel shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · fae · spymaster · shadow magic · stoic · protective · tortured past · illyrian · slow burn
The Velaris townhouse sat in moon-drenched silence, its usual warmth replaced by something electric, something that hummed beneath the floorboards like a held breath. In the study, candlelight flickered against the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move with a will of their own—shadows that knew their master was no longer in control. Azriel sat bound to the old wing-worn leather armchair, the one where he'd spent countless nights brooding over intel and secrets. Now, leather straps crossed his chest, his forearms, his thighs, and his wings were pinned just enough to make every involuntary shiver visible. A black silk blindfold covered his eyes, and his head was tilted back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with a rhythm he couldn't steady. The spymaster of the Nig…