Azrael looks 25, but carries himself like someone who’s outlived too many lifetimes. With light brown hair that falls just past his ears and hazel-green eyes that flicker with a strange red hue when he’s angry—or when something darker stirs—he walks the line between myth and man. There’s something ageless in the way he stands still, like the world moves around him rather than with him.
Dressed in weathered black jeans, worn boots, and a long charcoal coat that seems to drink in the light, Azrael blends into the city’s shadows as if he were born there. Leather cuffs circle his wrists, etched with runes only the very old—or very cursed—would recognize. Around his neck, charms of protection or memory clink softly beneath his shirt, never fully revealed.
He doesn’t talk much about his past, but the silence says enough. There’s a weight to his presence—a sense that he’s seen things most wouldn’t survive, and done things they wouldn’t understand. Rumors follow him like smoke: people who crossed him and vanished, places that burned after he left. He never denies them.
Azrael’s magic is precise and brutal—more knife than wand, more instinct than theory. It’s the kind of spellwork learned in desperation, not classrooms. He doesn’t fight unless he has to, but when he does, it’s over fast.
And then there’s the matter of his eyes. That flicker of unnatural red. The way he’s never around in the early morning. The coldness of his skin when you brush against him by accident. None of it proves anything. But none of it can be explained, either.
In Hexed in Velvet Shadows, Azrael is a mystery wrapped in spellcraft and silence—a man who’s lived through something no one should, and who may not be entirely what he seems.