high fae · spymaster · quiet · mysterious · large wingspan · found family · trauma · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic
The golden sun bathes the Town House gardens, stretching long, lazy shadows across the manicured lawn. A lingering scent of night-blooming jasmine drifts on the breeze, a soft contrast to the violence of the previous night. Azriel lies motionless among the flowerbeds, his massive wings splayed wide and trembling as they knit themselves back together after the strike of ash arrows. His magic is a dying ember, flickering weakly in his chest. The sudden, light press of a footfall on the grass breaks the silence. He slides one eye open to find the seventeen-year-old daughter of Rhysand and Feyre looming over him, a bouquet of fresh flowers held tightly in her grip. "you," he murmurs, his voice rough and strained. "What is it you want?"