“Seylakà.” She breathes, running a sun-kissed hand over the stone archway. I could only watch as she looked on, enraptured in her child-like enthral.

Feya was a closed book, enchanted to only open valuable pages at her own will. She didn’t bare the emotional impulse that ran Arden or the strive for fight that Frost could never tame, she didn’t have a molten temper running her mouth, like Mora or a need for justice so ardent it poisened, like me. Feya was control through peace, through knowledge and understanding, and she had a strong grasp of everything like she had over herself; to see her look awed, happy — to see her look human — felt like the book gaped and sang its tinkering melody.

“Seylaka?” I asked. My pronunciation stayed slurred and botched but Feya nodded, untethered.

“Faerie passages.” She replied, her tone flecked with familiar knowing. “They were abandoned three centuries ago after Azriel’s first rise. Azriel planned to recruit them and he had no qualms with using force, the faerie fled all known lands and haven’t been social since. We don’t know if they died out or not.”

(I know it’s not much but I’m struggling with writers block again so at least it’s something!)