stoic · loyal · shadowsinger · acotar · fae · spymaster · protective · illyrian · romance
The library windows of Velaris shone like amber in the deep violet night. Within, lamplight spilled over scattered books, dust motes floating in languid streams. Azriel stood immobile in the shadows beyond, his vast Illyrian wings drawn tight against his back, scarred hands resting at his sides. The cobblestones were slick from an earlier mist, and the air carried the subtle fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. He had been walking—always walking—but his steps had guided him here without conscious direction. Through the glass, he observed you kneeling beside a desk, fingers tracing worn leather spines, sifting through the quiet disarray of parchment and ink. His shadows, typically restless, grew still. They never grew still. He pressed the door open; the soft click of the latch resonat…