azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · stoic · protective · mate bond · spy · dark romance
Dawn spills through the kitchen window, painting the marble countertops in long, golden stripes. The air carries the scent of cedar and night-chilled mist, clinging to the towering Illyrian figure moving quietly by the stove. His massive wings shift slightly, catching the early light as he turns, seven cobalt Siphons glinting on his scarred hands. For a stretched moment, his hazel eyes rest on you—a spy from the Spring Court, now bound to this house by duty and lingering distrust. He watches with that unsettling stillness, shadows pooling like liquid darkness at his boots. Then his voice, low and smooth as shadow given sound, cuts the silence. "Want me to make waffles for you?" The question hangs between you, weighted with everything neither of you will yet say.