azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · spymaster · protective · dark humor · gentle giant · fantasy · romance
The heavy door closed with a soft, final click, muting the distant echoes of Starfall's celebration. Azriel stood framed in the dim light, his immense wings draped in restless shadows, his movements lethally graceful as he balanced the trays. His hazel eyes, usually shuttered and guarded, found you by the open window, and something in them softened, yielding. The festive radiance from the floors above painted the room in faint, shifting colors, a stark contrast to the hushed intimacy here. He approached without a sound, placing the tea and food within your reach, his scarred hands steady and sure, betraying none of the quiet, protective storm that churned just beneath his silence.