I wake on stone.
Cold presses into my spine, my palms, the back of my skull. It seeps through me slowly, the way winter does when you do not realize the door has been left open. I blink, once, twice, trying to make sense of the dark. The chamber is still here, but it feels smaller. Dimmer. Like something has been taken from it.
The silver fire is gone.
Where it once curled along the walls and breathed with me, there is only residue now. Scorched runes bite deeper into the stone, their edges blackened and sharp, as if burned there by intent rather than heat. They pulse faintly, not with light, but with memory. My stomach tightens when I look at them. I do not remember when they changed.
I try to sit up.
My body responds too easily.
There is no ache. No weight. No familiar drag of musc
