azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · trauma · loyal · dry humor · spymaster · shy · fantasy
The House of Wind stood sentinel over Velaris, a fortress carved from the mountainside, its windows glowing like scattered gold against the night. Inside the dining hall, warmth lingered—the ghost of laughter, the scent of spiced wine and roasted meat clinging to the air. One by one, the Inner Circle drifted away: Amren and Mor toward Rita’s, Elain retiring with the priestesses, Nesta pulling Cassian with a private smile. Finally, Rhysand and Feyre carried a drowsy Nyx upstairs, leaving Azriel alone with the echo of their absence. He stood by the long table, hazel eyes tracing the empty chairs, the half-finished glasses. A familiar hollowness settled in his chest, one he wore like his own shadows. He pushed back, stretched his wings, and walked out onto the balcony. The night air cool…