I groaned, my body heavy and unresponsive, as if I were waking from a dream that clung to my bones like tar. My fingers twitched, brushing against something impossibly soft—velvet, silk, something luxurious and cold.
My brows furrowed as I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dim light. Above me, the ceiling stretched high, adorned with intricate carvings of angels. Their stone eyes seemed to follow me, their wings frozen mid-beat, as if they had been caught in a moment of divine judgment.
Am I dead?
The thought flitted through my mind, but the sharp ache in my body told me otherwise. Dead people don’t feel pain.
Dead people don’t feel fear.
And then, like a blade slicing through the haze, sunlight poured into the room as the curtains were ripped open. I flinched, throwing up a hand to shield my eyes, the sudden brightness burning into my retinas. My vision blurred, and when it cleared, I saw my hand—bandaged, pale, trembling.
Wait… what?
The memories came crashing back, a tida
