Roused from grey sleep, the priestess Iris opened the window and leaned outward, feeling the hand of the North Wind upon her face.

She thought of the human Teva Rosaria.

Teva was the reason that she could not fly. Teva was the reason she could not transcend, could not follow her metamorphosis into what she could be.

But she also thought of his face and of his eyes and hair. He was a creature like she had never seen. She thought of the kindness he showed in her time in the web of Earth, with gentle hands and soul, and how she had forever changed.

But Teva was not here. Teva could not stay. Teva could not be here anymore.