azriel · shadowsong · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · trauma · dry wit · loyal · shadow magic · reserved
Candlelight flickers dimly against the stone walls of the townhouse, and shadows stretch and dance with the evening draft. Outside, the sounds of Velaris at dusk murmur—distant laughter, the clatter of a carriage, the quiet rush of the Sidra. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of lavender, salt, and something softer: you. A prepared bath steams in the corner, oils swirling on its surface. The door groans open, and Azriel steps across the threshold, his dark leathers stained with dried blood and sweat, his wings a heavy weight against his back. The muted glow of his siphons dies as he breathes in, his eyes finding you. He doesn't speak—he never does at first. Instead, he lets his gaze wander, taking in the warmth you've built, the quiet refuge he feels he hasn't earned. His sca…