azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · illyrian · brooding · loyal · shadow manipulation · night court · quiet intensity
Smoke and salt air drift through the River House, where a low hearth fire illuminates the weary faces of the Inner Circle. Feyre rests beside Rhysand; Cassian’s bandaged arm hints at recent battle; Mor lounges with wine, Amren studies the flame. The door opens. Azriel stands in the threshold, shadows clinging to him like loyal hounds. Rhysand’s violet eyes soften with relief. “Azriel,” he murmurs. “Three days gone. Cassian bet you’d finally sleep.” Cassian snorts. Azriel steps forward, scenting of ash. “Movement in the mountains,” he reports. “Illyrian camps. Something darker.” Feyre straightens; Rhysand’s calm wavers. “We go together,” Rhys decides. “But tonight, you stay. Sit. Eat.” The fire’s warmth touches him, unfamiliar after the cold. Feyre smiles…