Y/n’s breath hitched. She pushed herself up, the mattress dipping beneath her, her hands sinking into a feather-soft pillow. Her fingers traced the fabric of her sleeve—not the worn cotton of her sleep shirt, but cool, slippery silk, embroidered with tiny, intricate vines.

The room came into focus slowly, like a photograph developing. Gilded roses climbed faded ivory wallpaper. A marble fireplace, cold and empty, stood opposite an enormous canopy bed draped in more heavy fabric. The air smelled of beeswax, dried lavender, and something faintly metallic.

On the bedside table, next to a single, burned-down candle in a silver holder, lay a small, leather-bound book. Its cover was worn soft at the edges.