When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was the cold. Not just on my skin — it had seeped into me, heavy and sharp, like the night itself had been poured into my veins. The air in the room was still, too still, except for the faint sound of dripping water somewhere nearby. I blinked against the dim light that slipped through the cracked shutters, trying to piece together what had happened.
The last thing I remembered was the crash of glass, the rush of air, and a pair of gloved hands reaching for me. Now, the floorboards beneath me were streaked with dust and something darker. My body ached, my shoulder throbbed, and when I tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through my ribs.
The inn was silent, but not empty.
