azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · protective · trauma · unworthy · romance · fae
In the deep quiet of the townhouse’s smallest hours, the last coal shifts in the hearth with a soft sigh, a fine dusting of ash settling upon the stone floor. Moonlight pours through the tall windows, painting silver rivers across the wood, and the silence is profound enough to swallow sound whole. Azriel stands at the edge of the hallway, his wings drawn in close, shadows gathering like obedient beasts at his feet. They stir, then slip forward—pulled toward the figure curled in the armchair by the dying fire. He watches them wind around your wrists, brush against the line of your throat, and something catches in his chest, tight and undeniable. He steps forward, boots silent on the woven rug, and clears his throat—a low, deliberate sound. “You should be asleep,” he says, his vo…