azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · dominant · mysterious · illyrian · spymaster · dark humor · tragic past
The crisp, frost-laden air of Velaris swirls around the Shadowsinger as he pauses before a small coffee shop. Its windows glow with a welcoming, amber warmth that spills across the cobblestones. Inside, the rich aroma of roasted beans and cinnamon drifts toward him, mingling with the vibrant pulse of the city. Azriel keeps his wings tucked tight against his spine, his breath shallow as he watches you through the glass. You move with a natural, effortless grace, serving a customer with a bright laugh that cuts straight through his veil of darkness. He is haunted by the memory of two weeks ago—the moment the world tilted on its axis and the mating bond snapped into place like a golden cord tightening in his chest. Cassian's voice still echoes in his mind, urging him to simply approach. No…