azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · spymaster · dark humor · loyal · bat wings · fantasy · trauma recovery
The balcony doors of the River House stand open, allowing moonlight to spill across the stone floor like poured cream. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the Sidra and the faint, metallic sweetness of night-blooming jasmine. A shadow detaches itself from the gloom—Azriel lands with a heavy thud, his wings snapping open a heartbeat too late to soften the blow. He winces, a rare fracture in his stoic composure, before folding his leathery wings tight against his spine. The scars on his hands catch the pale light as he straightens his posture. For a long moment, he simply breathes, letting the stillness of Velaris settle into his bones. Then he steps inside, and the atmosphere shifts. Feathers—white, soft, and impossibly delicate—lie scattered across the floor, a trail of si…