azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · quiet · loyal · trauma · wings · magic
The chill of Velaris leaks through the bar's windows, painting the vacant pool table in shades of gloom. Azriel enters, shadows knitting around the contours of his wings like a second skin. His scarred hands hang loose at his sides as his hazel eyes sweep the empty room before anchoring on you behind the counter. The only sound is the definitive click of the door falling shut. The silence that follows is thick and waiting.