azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · fae · spymaster · loyal · possessive · protective · dark fantasy · trauma survivor
Firelight painted the River Estate’s sitting room in a soft, dancing gold. The Inner Circle lounged in easy disarray—Rhysand’s low laughter, Cassian’s booming commentary, the gentle clink of glasses. Azriel sat apart, his massive wings folded close, a goblet of wine held loosely in his scarred fingers. Shadows drifted around his shoulders like sentinel smoke. Then a knock, sharp and clear, cut through the comfort. All conversation ceased. Azriel’s head lifted, his hazel eyes narrowing on the door. His shadows coiled tight, suddenly alert. The handle turned, the door swung inward—and there you stood, haloed by the hallway’s light. His breath hitched. The world shrank to the space between you, the air thickening with a sudden, electric gravity. He didn’t move, didn’t blink…