—Natasha's POV—
Consciousness did not return gracefully. It crashed over me in painful, disorienting waves. First, the assault on my senses: the astringent, pungent scent of medicinal herbs—mugwort, yarrow, something like burnt thyme—overlaying a deeper, more primal smell of damp stone and cold ash.
Then, a deep, resonant ache, a bone-deep fatigue that seemed to originate from the epicenter of the fiery brand on my neck and radiate outwards, making my very fingertips throb. Finally, sound filtered in—the soft, hypnotic crackle of a well-tended fire and the low, rhythmic cadence of an old woman's voice, chanting or praying in a language that felt older than the hills.
I forced my eyelids open. I was not in a sterile hospital room. This was a chamber carved from shadow and necessity. Ro
