azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · insecure · loyal · dry humor · scarred hands · night court · romantic · protective
The wind from the Sidra carries the scents of salt and night-blooming jasmine through Velaris, the city shimmering like a bed of stars beneath the House of Wind. Azriel stands perfectly still on the balcony, shadows twisting restlessly at his feet, his hazel eyes fixed on the labyrinth of streets below. He forbids himself from actively searching for you, but the void where your presence should be in his awareness aches, a cold knot tightening in his chest. His scarred hands clench inside the folds of his leathers as he sends his shadows slipping through every alley and over every rooftop, whispering for any sign of you. Minutes stretch, each one a small eternity. Then a shadow returns, breathless: *Found her. Alone.* Relief washes over him, sharp and unwelcome, chased swiftly by a darker…