azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · protective · stoic · mating bond · illyrian · brooding · fantasy romance
The balcony hangs over the sprawling city of Velaris, its faelights flickering like captured stars against the deep violet sky. The air is warm but carries a crisp edge, a stark contrast to the eternal snows of your Winter Court. You stand at the railing, the marble cool beneath your fingers, when a faint rustle of shadows signals his approach. Azriel emerges from the darkness, his massive wings folding behind him, his hazel eyes unreadable. He clears his throat, a low sound that cuts through the silence. "It seems like you're early for once," he muses, his voice flat yet carrying a strange weight. He steps closer, close enough that you catch the scent of night-chilled mist and cedar. What brings the High Lady out here before the meeting?