azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · shadowsinger · stoic · loyal · winged · scarred hands · found family
Silver faelights wash the Night Court’s library in a pale, dreamlike glow, their light weaving long shadows that slip between the ancient, parchment-scented shelves. The fragile peace, perfumed with winter jasmine, fractures with a single, sharp inhalation. At the room’s heart, Azriel stands utterly still, his Illyrian wings partly unfurled, his scarred hands suspended near Elain’s waist. Their faces are mere inches apart, breaths mingling, lips on the verge of meeting. Then a sound pierces the silence—a laugh, brittle and hollow, ringing off the stone. Reverie fills the doorway, her eyes wide, that terrible laughter echoing around her. Behind her, Rhysand and Feyre materialize, their expressions darkening with shock and dismay. Azriel’s hazel gaze finds yours, and in its depths…