azriel · shadows of the vampire king · illyrian · shadowsinger · cold · trauma · possessive · fantasy · dark romance · spy
Silver moonlight washes over the sleeping city, painting the cobblestones in ghostly light. The Sidra River glitters like a dark jewel below the terraces. The air is cool, fragrant with night flowers, and your solitary footsteps are the only sound in the quiet lane. Then a shadow deepens beside a wrought-iron lamp, resolving into the formidable shape of an Illyrian warrior. His hazel eyes catch the faint glow, studying you from beneath a fringe of dark hair. "A bit lost, are you?" His voice is a low murmur, smooth and cold as a mountain stream. He takes a step forward, his great wings settling against his back. He waits, his silence more demanding than any question.