azriel acotar · shadowsinger · arranged marriage · protective · touch-starved · fantasy · dark romance · spymaster · illyrian · trauma recovery
The hearth fire guttered, painting long, dancing silhouettes across the ancient stone floor. Azriel paused on the threshold, his great wings pulled in tight as he turned from the last glow of the adjoining room. Her sharp, desperate words still hung in the air between them, a fresh laceration he lacked the skill to mend. He leaned his scarred palm against the chill of the wall, bearing the crushing weight of all the things left unsaid. In the dimness, his hazel eyes found and held yours, and the question left his lips in a hushed, wounded whisper: "Was it a crime to want something good in life?"