The sound of trumpets blaring in my head is an excruciating cacophony.
I feel like my brain is on fire.
I'm curled up on the ground in foetal position, my hands clamped over my ears, my eyes screwed tightly shut. Gradually, the bedlam of blasting noise weakens, and intensity of the sound fades, the volume dropping until the last brassy note hangs on the air until tapering out into silence.
Slowly, I blink open my eyes through a fog of residual pain. I'm momentarily taken aback by what I see.
Where am I?
Stretched out before me, an unfamiliar scene has replaced my bedroom in the dormitory tower at St. Selaphiel's Academy. Stark, bleak whiteness as far as the eye can see. No - a blanket of whiteness on the ground, under a slate grey sky.
And I'm cold. So, so cold.
How did I get here?
