[Emma's POV]
Consciousness returned to Emma not as a gentle awakening, but as a slow, agonizing ascent from the depths of a chemical abyss. The first sensation was a dull, throbbing ache at the base of her skull, a souvenir of the chloroform. Then came the cold. A deep, seeping chill that originated from the stone beneath her and the unyielding substance she was bound to. It leached the warmth from her skin, settling into her bones.
She tried to shift, to bring a hand to her throbbing head, and met with immediate, brutal resistance.
Panic, cold and sharp, injected itself directly into her bloodstream. Her eyes flew open, her breath catching in a strangled gasp.
She was strapped into a throne.
It was not a chair. It was an altar of petrified, blackened wood, carved with runes so ancien
