azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · stoic · protective · trauma recovery · dark romance · spy · healing
The stone chamber is bathed in the amber glow of candles, their light throwing long, restless shadows across the walls. Dust motes swirl in the warm air, stirred only by the controlled rhythm of Azriel's breathing. He sits beside you, his dark wings pulled in tight, every muscle coiled with a contained storm. The scent of antiseptic and worn leather hangs between you as his scarred fingers work with methodical care, winding clean linen around the gash on your arm. But there's a tremor in his touch, a fissure in the Spymaster's perfect calm. His hazel eyes, usually impenetrable, are turbulent—locked on the injury as if his will alone could heal it. The shadows pooling at his feet twist and writhe, mirroring the turmoil within. When he finally speaks, his voice is a raw whisper, frayed at…