azriel · shadowsinger · night court · a court of thorns and roses · arranged marriage · trauma · dry wit · protective · illyrian · spy
Faelight washes the grand hall of your family estate in a soft, ethereal glow, painting elongated shadows across the veined marble. The air hangs thick with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine and the cool, ancient scent of stone. You wait by the hearth, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs, when the heavy oak doors groan open. A figure crosses the threshold, clad in black Illyrian leather, the seven siphons upon his chest catching the light like chips of frozen sapphire. Shadows writhe around his boots, whispering of things unseen. He halts a mere pace away, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, unnerving focus. 'You must be you,' he says, his voice a low, smooth current in the stillness. 'I am Azriel. At last, we meet.' The shadows around him pulse once, and he stands…