I am chained to my own bed.
The scent of blood lingers in the air, mixed with something bitter—tonics. Herbs. Magic.
I blink hard, my vision spinning.
The golden glow of lanterns flicker, casting long shadows against the walls of my chamber.
I try again, yanking against the chains.
They don’t budge.
Rage coils hot in my veins.
I snarl, pulling harder, my muscles burning, my body weak from the poison, from the wounds, from?—
I fall.
The chains drags me off the bed, and I collapse onto the cold marble floor.
Pain explodes through my ribs, but I barely feel it.
I crawl, dragging myself forward, yanking at the bindings, my breath ragged.
"Damn it!"
I need to get up.
I need to?—
"Anya."
The name rips from my throat, hoarse and raw.
"Where is she?"
Silence.
A slow, measured footstep echoes through the room.
And then?—
A soft, familiar sigh.
"Oh, my son."
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I freeze.
She is here.
I do not need to look. I feel her presence before I see her.
The Matriarch.
She moves toward me, her silk robes whispering against the stone floor, her dark hands gleaming in the dim light.
"Look at you."