Syl came awake to the smell of smoke.
It was a scent that clung to the back of his sore throat, wood charred too long, mingled with the damp weight of stone and earth.
For a moment he thought he was still on the battlefield—that the haze in his head was only the residue of frost, the ringing of steel, the copper bite of blood filling his nose.
But no, the battle hadn't smelled like this. The battle had smelled of fire and ice and spilled entrails. This was… quieter. Heavy. Wrong.
His eyes opened into darkness mottled with flickers of orange. The ceiling above him wasn't sky. Rocks, damp with condensation, uneven and pressing close. Shadows shivered with each crackle of fire, like ghosts stretching long fingers toward him.
