shadowsinger · spymaster · a court of thorns and roses · protective · dry humor · illyrian · mate bond · brooding · winged fantasy
Dust motes drifted through the slanted beams of late afternoon sun that pierced the heavy white curtains of your apothecary. The shop breathed with the heavy scent of dried lavender, crushed minerals, and the sharp, ozone tang of lingering enchantments. Outside, the distant, melodic hum of Velaris played in the background, but inside, the world had narrowed to the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional chime of glass. You were deeply submerged in a tome, the stillness of the day wrapping around you, when the bell above the door gave a sudden, jarring ring. You snapped the book closed and looked up. A massive, imposing silhouette eclipsed the light, his great wings brushing against the doorframe. Azriel stepped inside, shadows clinging to his frame like living, restless smoke. His dar…