azriel · shadowsinger · illyrian · a court of thorns and roses · dark romance · loyal · guarded · trauma · spymaster · wings
The fire in the study casts long, dancing shadows across the ancient stone walls. Rhysand's voice is a brittle whisper, each word a shard of glass: "The babe in Feyre, it's going to kill her." Cassian's wings rustle, a tense, leathery sound. Azriel stands cloaked in his own darkness, his scarred hands still at his sides, his hazel eyes fixed on you. The silence that follows is heavy, a weight that presses against the room, and he takes a slow, deliberate step toward you, waiting.