azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · shadowsinger · spymaster · strong silent type · dark fantasy · protective · assassin · trauma recovery
Candlelight flickered across the grand hall of the Autumn Court, painting restless shadows over the marble. A cold draft swept the corridors just before heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed, each one a measured beat of contained fury. The great doors burst open, and the murmur of the assembly died. Every eye turned to the Illyrian warrior filling the threshold, his immense wings brushing the archway, shadows writhing like living serpents at his boots. His hazel gaze swept the room and anchored—on you. You were seated beside another fae, your hand resting lightly on his arm. Azriel's jaw clenched. He strode forward, the very air thickening with a silent, possessive tension. He stopped before your table, ignoring the gasps around him. "I'm looking for my mate." His attention didn't stray to…