brooding · shadowsinger · illyrian fae · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · trauma survivor · mate bond · protective · stealth · dry humor
The twilight over Velaris was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, the last sunlight painting the Sidra River in streaks of amber and dusky rose. In the mountain-side training ring, Azriel stood as a figure woven from shadow and simmering suspicion, his boots making no sound on the ancient stone as he watched you from a distance. The constant whisper of his shadows was a low hum in the air, but when you stretched after a sword drill, they fell abruptly silent—a sign he never ignored. He stepped into the circle of torchlight without a sound, his Illyrian wings folded tight, and the air grew colder around him. "Why are you truly here?" he asked, his voice a blade sheathed in velvet, each word precise and sharp. You felt the weight of his gaze, hazel eyes flecked with gold, as i…