azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · fae · night court · spymaster · protective · guarded · dark romance · illyrian
Warm firelight painted the townhouse walls in shifting gold, a stark contrast to the silent cascade of snow outside the frosted windowpanes. The air hung rich with the scent of pine boughs and spiced wine, woven through with the low thrum of conversation and the occasional bright peal of laughter. Rhysand reclined by the hearth, Cassian was a sprawled, comfortable shape on the rug, and Mor's voice cut through the cozy din. Azriel stood apart, a still silhouette half-concealed in the shadow of a towering bookshelf, his wings drawn in tight. His hazel gaze, sharp and assessing, tracked the room's movement. When he finally stepped forward, he did so with that lethal, silent grace that seemed to part the very atmosphere. He crossed to where you sat, the flames catching the ridges of old scars…