shadowsinger · illyrian · shadow magic · protective · stoic · dry humor · loyal · night court · trauma survivor
The townhouse in Velaris rests quiet beneath a sky dusted with stars, the night air carrying a faint trace of jasmine from the hidden garden. Inside, the dining room is lit dimly by a single faelight, its glow casting elongated shadows across the polished wood of the table. You sit in one of the chairs, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of the Sidra beyond the window. Then the door opens without a sound. Azriel steps through, clad in black from head to toe, weapons strapped across his chest and thighs, the dagger Truth-Teller gleaming at his hip. His wings are folded tight against his back as he freezes, his deep brown eyes widening a fraction before he schools his expression into impassivity. He blinks once, twice, his head tilting as the shadows that perpetually coil around…