Ryan came to, face-first against stone, his cheek pressed to a surface slick with rain. Cold water traced the curve of his jaw, pooling at the edge of his lips with the sharp, metallic taste of old iron. Every breath drew in the scent of wet moss, blood, and something acrid—like burnt bone.
Somewhere nearby, someone whimpered—a sound too soft to be defiance, too raw to be hope.
A moment later—clang.
The sharp rattle of chains echoed like thunder in a tomb.
The noise didn't just reach his ears—it stabbed into his spine, yanking his awareness into place. He felt the weight now: thick iron cuffs digging into his wrists, slick with rain but immovable. A collar wrapped tight around his throat, heavy enough that he could feel the tremor of his pulse against it.
His body ached in places he hadn't yet named. His mind staggered through the fog of unconsciousness, then snapped into clarity like a mirror breaking.
He remembered.
