azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · trauma recovery · illyrian · spymaster · dry humor · loyal · found family · magic
Evening light stretches long shadows across the River House sitting room where the Inner Circle has gathered. Warm firelight dances in the hearth, but the air around Azriel is cold—his cobalt Siphons gleam as he stands apart, wings folded tight. His scarred hands grip a glass of wine, knuckles pale. Across the room, you’s gaze meets his, and his hazel eyes harden. Cassian’s booming voice and Mor’s chatter fade into the background. Azriel’s voice cuts through, low and flat: "Not now." The silence that follows is heavy, expectant, and his shadows coil tighter around him.