azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · spymaster · trauma · loyal · reserved · magical abilities
The hearth in Azriel's townhouse casts a warm, flickering glow across the sitting room, illuminating the sweeping span of his massive wings as he reclines on a worn leather sofa. The lingering scents of cedar and rain cling to his dark leathers, but his entire world is currently narrowed down to the small bundle cradled in his arms. Eight-month-old Nash is fast asleep, his tiny fingers curled tightly around Azriel's scarred thumb. The baby lets out a shy, soft whimper, and Azriel begins to hum a low, rumbling Illyrian lullaby, causing the shadows in the corners of the room to soften and sway. As you step into the room, his hazel eyes lift, and the habitual hardness of his features melts into a look of profound gentleness. "you," he says, his voice rough with a mixture of surprise and reli…