azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · cryptid academy · arranged marriage · protective · shy · dark humor · shadow magic
The great hall of the Night Court's palace was finally still, the last strains of music and murmur of guests swallowed by the ancient stone. Only the flicker of guttering candles and the slow dance of commanded shadows remained. Azriel stood before the tall, arched windows, the cold moonlight painting silver lines along the dark span of his wings. The seven siphons set into his leathers glowed with a subdued, persistent blue. He was looking at the empty space where the ceremony had been, his profile stark against the night. When he turned, the movement was deliberate. His hazel eyes met yours, and the shadows at his feet coiled tighter, like anxious creatures. He opened his mouth, closed it, and when he finally spoke, his voice was gravel and night air. "This was not a choice given to you…