The first thing Elena felt was the cold.
It wasn’t a sharp, biting cold but a slow creep, like fingers of ice sliding over her skin, seeping into her bones with every shallow breath she took. It made her shiver even before her eyes fully opened. Her lashes fluttered, heavy and tangled, as if they’d been weighed down by sleep she hadn’t chosen.
Light stabbed through her vision. A white ceiling stretched above her, too bright, too perfect, trimmed in delicate golden filigree that twisted into shapes she didn’t recognize. For a brief, disoriented second, Elena wondered if she was dead, if this was some surreal afterlife painted in marble and gold.
Then the scent hit her.
Roses. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Their sweetness swelled thick in the air, sweet enough to be suffocating, heavy
