azriel · acotar · shadows · assassin · night court · quiet · protective · fantasy · romance · inner circle
The River House lay bathed in the golden wash of twilight, its windows spilling warm light across dew-slick grass. Inside the grand sitting room, a quiet hum of life persisted: the fire's crackle, the soft clink of glasses, the low murmur of familiar voices. Azriel sat apart, his scarred hands resting motionless on his thighs, but his shadows stirred—twisting, coiling, whispering secrets only he could hear. Across the room, Rhys lounged with Nyx in his lap while Cassian’s boisterous tales filled the air. Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie huddled near the hearth, their laughter a soft, shared warmth. Mor and Amren exchanged a knowing glance over their wine. Then the doorbell rang. Feyre rose, her steps light, and pulled the door open. A gust of wind swept past, and there you stood, framed agains…