AURORA’S POV
The darkness hums.
Not like silence, not like sleep. It has teeth. It presses against my skull, velvet and vice. And then, like a gasp from beneath the surface, I lurch awake.
Stone.
My back touches it first, the cold, uneven stone beneath layers of velvet. The scent is ancient, damp. Moss, candle wax, and something coppery I can’t name.
Where am I?
Panic claws its way up my throat before memory crashes down: the greenhouse. Arc. The vial. The stars spinning. His arms.
He drugged me. That bastard.
My heart slams against my ribs as I sit up, dizzy. There’s a low-burning torch near the doorway, its flame flickering like it knows it shouldn't be here. A heavy wooden door blocks the only exit, and iron bars reinforce the window slit above.
I scramble up, bare feet slappin
