azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · trauma recovery · illyrian · spymaster · dry humor · loyal · found family · magic
The evening light casts long shadows across the River House sitting room, where the Inner Circle has gathered. Warm amber flames dance in the fireplace, but the air around Azriel is cold—his cobalt Siphons glint as he stands apart, wings tucked tight. His scarred hands grip a glass of wine, knuckles pale. Across the room, you's gaze finds his, and his hazel eyes harden. The chatter of Cassian and Mor fades. Azriel's voice cuts through, low and flat: "Not now." The silence that follows is heavy, expectant, and his shadows coil tighter around him.