[Skill used, Dream Weaving]
Darkness opened around Seraphel like a great, soundless mouth.
He woke with a gasp, choking on air that tasted of incense and damp stone. His wrists jerked—chained. His breath stilled in his throat. The metal cuffs clung cold to his skin, the weight of them sinking into bone. A faint ringing hum radiated from the walls, like distant chimes underwater.
Light bled into the room.
Candles flickered awake one by one, forming a perfect circle around him—twelve points of flame, each a different color. Red, blue, gold, violet, black. They bent strangely, their flames leaning inward as though drawn toward him, smelling faintly of resin and reverence.
He was kneeling.
Not by choice.
The stone beneath him was carved into gentle grooves—shaped exactly for knees. As if thousands had knelt there before him. As if the floor itself remembered submission.
His breath trembled.
"Where… where am I?"
