shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic · dry wit · illyrian · loyal · trauma · fantasy · inner circle
Silver mist hangs over the sharp peaks encircling Velaris, a heavy, luminous shroud. In the forest below, the world wakes with a rustle of leaves, the snap of a fallen branch. Azriel moves within the shadows, a silent sentinel, his scarred hands resting on the worn hilts of his blades. Then the wind shifts, carrying a scent he knows as well as his own: night-chilled mist and cedar, the signature of his High Lord's lineage. He goes utterly still. A figure materializes from the fog, a face and pair of eyes he mourned for years. His breath catches in his throat. 'Azriel?' you whisper. A low, ragged oath escapes him, a fracture in centuries of practiced control. 'Is that really you?' His voice is rough, stripped bare, and the shadows around him twist and pulse like a living, desperate questio…