azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadow magic · spymaster · illyrian · guarded · loyal · dark fantasy · trauma survivor · wings
The House of Wind holds its breath tonight. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, pooling liquid silver across the obsidian floor, stretching shadows that seem to pulse with a quiet life of their own. The air carries the scent of cold stone and aged leather, and far below, the Sidra River murmurs its eternal refrain. Azriel stands at the window, his back turned to the room, wings folded tight against his spine. His silhouette is carved from the dark—broad-shouldered, motionless, a statue sculpted from secrets and scars. Shadows coil around him, restless, brushing his jaw like they are trying to offer comfort. He has not moved for hours, not since you left the room. Not since you touched his hand. The memory burns brighter than any flame. He can still feel the phantom of your finger…