Oak bark. My head hollows out. My heart does too. I’m not here, at the fae’s castle. I’m there, in Bryol, when I was five years old. When a leather gag that tasted of oak bark was pressed into my mouth. When I was stolen from my guards, separated from the other children and taken into Orea. Orea…where old fairy rings used to dot across the lands when fae had lived there.
