Cold.
Black.
The rattle of chains when I shift my position never relieving the ache in my muscles and bones.
I can't stretch my arms out all the way, and my elbows are starting to seize up. Alone, and I can't scream.
My throat's too dry.
How long? Can't remember. Can hardly remember the feel of air, or sunlight, what the stars look like.
Trying to count imaginary stars only lasts so long.
So cold, so cold. My throat's so dry I can't swallow.
My eyes popped open. The contrast between the pitch-blackness of my nightmare and the gloomy blur of the basement made me wince, and I squeezed my eyes shut and sat gasping against the couch, drenched in sweat.
Inside myself, I flailed, trying to reach my magic, but it was gone, still gone, out of reach, and I felt so empty and hollow…
Something creaked, the door at the top of the stairs.
