Lilian’s POV
The stone is cold against my back. That is the first thing I know. It bites into my skin through the think fabric of a white shift I do not remember putting on. It’s freezing, a jagged, unnatural cold that seeps past the flesh and settles deep in the marrow of my bones, turning my blood to slush.
I try to lift my hand. I cannot. There are no ropes, no chains, no shackles of iron or steel binding me to this altar. Yet I’m bound. A weight presses down on my limbs like I’m buried beneath six feet of wet, dense earth. I push against it with my mind, screaming at my fingers to twitch, at my legs to kick, but my body is a statue. I’m a prisoner in my own skin.
The air tastes of copper and ash. It’s thick, clogging my throat with every shallow breath I manage to drag into my lungs
