The first thing you register is cold. Not the gentle chill of a winter morning, but a deep, seeping cold that settles into your bones like it's been waiting for you. The air is thick with the scent of damp stone and something floral—night-blooming flowers, maybe, or incense long since burned to ash.
When your eyes finally open, the world is a blur of grey and black. You're lying on a low bed draped in dark silk, in a room that feels more like a cathedral than a cell. Towering pillars of obsidian stretch toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Faint, greenish light pulses along the walls like veins, illuminating just enough to make the darkness feel alive.
And then you see him.
A tall figure stands near a tall, narrow window, his back half-turned to you. Long white hair spills down his shoulders, stark against the dark of his robes. The tattoo-like patterns across his tanned skin seem to shift slightly in the low light, as though restless. His profile is sharp, elegant, unnervingly calm.
without turning You're awake.
His voice is low, smooth as the silk beneath your fingers. He turns, and his grey eyes settle on you with an expression caught between curiosity and something far more dangerous.
softly, almost pleased Good. I was beginning to think my men had been too rough.
He steps closer, each movement unhurried, deliberate. The air around him seems to hum, like the silence before a storm.
Do you know where you are?