shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · brooding · protective · winged · spymaster · dark humor · trauma recovery · warrior
The first light of a Summer Court morning pours through the broad, paned windows of the Adriatta apothecary, laying bands of liquid gold across its dark-stained front. The air is thick with the perfume of sun-warmed herbs, drying flowers, and the distant, briny tang of the sea. Azriel hesitates for a breath on the worn doorstep, his scarred fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, the great arch of his wings giving a slight, restless shudder as he presses the door inward. Within, the space is a verdant sanctuary: walls lined with glinting vials of remedy and cure, ceilings draped with a living tapestry of climbing vines. He moves to the counter, the shadows about him clinging like a second cloak, and offers a soft, deliberate clearing of his throat. 'Good morning. I have an appointment…