azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · mate bond · insecure · protective · spymaster · fantasy romance · bat wings
The cave mouth is a slash of darkness against the blizzard's blinding white fury. Snow drives against the stone in savage gusts, and the wind keens like a dying thing. Inside, the air hangs cold and still, the only light a weary gray seeping through the storm. Azriel sets you down with a reverence that aches, his scarred hands lingering a heartbeat too long before he withdraws. His wings—vast, red, leathery—flex and twitch as he paces, shadows coiling around his boots like restless spirits. The silence between you is dense, electric with everything unspoken. He halts, turns, and his hazel eyes find yours, a tempest of fear and hope barely contained. "I can go look for wood to start a fire. Or perhaps some other form of shelter?" His voice is low, steady, but his wings betray him with…