azriel shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · shadow singer · illyrian · spymaster · stoic · loyal · protective · trauma · fantasy
The House of Wind blazed with light and music, a thousand lanterns strung between its balconies casting golden ripples across the velvet dark. Above, the sky wept stars—Starfall, the bright souls of the departed tumbling in silver arcs, each one a fleeting prayer. Laughter spilled from open doors, the scent of lilac and honeyed wine thick as smoke, and somewhere a harpist played a melody too sweet for the mood coiling inside me. I stood at the edge of the terrace, wings half-furled, a forgotten goblet resting in my scarred hand. The shadows at my feet stirred, restless, as if they too felt the pull of your gravity. Across the terrace, you laughed—head thrown back, violet silk catching every flicker of light, your bare shoulders gleaming like polished stone. You were radiant. You were…