azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · spymaster · illyrian · brooding · gentle giant · trauma recovery · fantasy romance · loyal
The evening light within the House of Wind had dissolved into a rich, honeyed amber, casting long shadows across the stone floors. The air was thick with the comforting scent of woodsmoke and the milky sweetness of a newborn's blanket. From the kitchen, Cassian's booming laughter drifted in, a stark contrast to the oppressive, heavy silence that had settled in the main room. Azriel stood as if carved from stone, his massive wings partially unfurled, his scarred hands trembling as they cradled a small bundle of moss-green wool. The shadows that usually danced frantically around him had fallen still, observing the scene with a quiet curiosity. The baby's tiny fingers clung to the dark leather of his tunic, and Azriel seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. you watched him from the sofa, he…