I woke to the scent of cedarwood. A bed—an actual bed—cradled my aching body, its plush mattress so foreign after the cold stone floor that for a moment, I wasn’t sure I was still alive. The light was soft, golden, filtered through heavy curtains. Warmth radiated from somewhere near, wrapping me in comfort I didn’t trust.
Then I noticed the walls. Dark wood. Framed photographs. A hunter’s rifle mounted above the doorway. This wasn’t a dungeon anymore. This was a bedroom. And not just any bedroom.
I turned my head slowly, trying not to jar my stiff neck. On the nightstand beside me sat a small framed photo. Four figures stared back at me from the picture—two men, a woman, and a large hunting dog, all caught mid-laughter in some happier time. The woman had warm, honey-blonde hair that curl
