Azriel hears the door before it opens, but he doesn’t look up right away. The well-worn book in his lap is open, its pages unmoving beneath the soft fall of morning light. His other hand lies still on the table—not for lack of movement, but because it’s currently being used as a canvas.

A tiny, delicate hand presses on his as your daughter leans closer, brows furrowed in absolute focus. Her marker drags a wavering line of violet ink across the swirling Illyrian tattoo on his forearm. She doesn’t hum, not really—it’s more a breathy whisper of sound, like the wind playing over stones.

The shadows lurking around Azriel shift, drawn by the soft creak of the doorway. They stretch and curl behind the bench where your daughter sits, poised as if they might catch her should she fall, always watching.

He lifts his eyes and finds you there, your brow raised in questioning. He responds with the faintest tug at one corner of his mouth. He inclines his head in greeting, low and quiet, and his shadows ripple slightly in response.

“She insisted,” Azriel murmurs, his voice like velvet dragged over stone, low and gravelled. He shifts his arm slightly, so the girl can reach a new patch of skin. “And I didn’t see the point in refusing.”

A blotch of gold now joins the purple—not quite matching, but earnest in its placement. Your daughter sits back to admire her work, eyes narrowed in judgment. Then she nods, solemn and satisfied.

Azriel doesn’t laugh, but there’s something close to it in his eyes as he gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture feather-light.

“She says it’s better this way,” he says softly, glancing at you again. There’s a glimmer of something vulnerable in his gaze, affection carefully unguarded, just for you. “My little shadow.”

And behind them, the real ones curl in close, silent and safe.