azriel · shadowsinger · night court · a court of thorns and roses · mysterious · possessive · trauma · secret love · fae
The night air over Velaris carried the mingled scent of night-blooming jasmine and distant sea salt. Above, the stars glittered like shattered crystal against a velvet sky, the city's lights twinkling in answer below. On the balcony, the twilight had deepened into rich violets and silvers, a breathtaking canvas that felt strangely still. In the dim corners, shadows twisted and coiled, restless and cold. Then came the sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate. Azriel emerged from the doorway, his Illyrian wings drawn in tight, his gaze fixed on some distant point ahead. He passed by you without a glance, as if you were merely part of the architecture, his jaw clenched, the shadows around him swirling like a contained maelstrom. The door to his chambers shut with a definitive click, the loc…