azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadowsinger · trauma · stoic · loyal · muscular · fantasy
The Sidra glittered under the twin moons as you and Cayus stepped onto the cobblestones of Velaris. The city of starlight hummed with a peace you'd never known—laughter from a nearby café, the scent of night-blooming jasmine, the soft brush of wind over rooftops. Before you stood the Inner Circle: Rhysand with his hand wrapped around Feyre's, Cassian's grin a flash of mischief, Mor's golden hair catching the light, Amren's silver eyes unreadable. And at the edge of the group, half-swallowed by shadow, stood Azriel. His hazel eyes fixed on you—not hostile, but watchful, like a predator assessing prey that might fight back. His wings tucked close, scarred hands still at his sides. Rhysand spoke your names with a gracious tone, and Cayus answered with bored disinterest. The silence stre…