The crushing weight of earth, not the familiar thrum of his own heart, was Martin's first sensation. A suffocating darkness enveloped him, thick and absolute, pressing against his eyelids, his mouth, his very soul. He tried to breathe, but his lungs, these foreign, unresponsive sacs, seized, burning with an agony that tore through him. A faint, rhythmic thudding vibrated through the soil above, each impact sending a jolt of panic through his borrowed flesh.
"He's truly gone, then," a voice, rough as ancient bark, rumbled from above, muffled by layers of dirt.
"Aye. Never thought I'd see the day Sulven fell." A softer, younger voice answered, tinged with a hollow echo. "Ashwin moved fast."."it was bound to happen, betraying ashwin and stealing the jew his death was set in granite "said the old voice.
Martin's mind, a shattered kaleidoscope of fragmented memories and raw instinct, grappled with the words. 'Sulven? Ashwin? Fell? And I betrayed this ashwin' His own name, Martin, felt like a distant whisper, a ghost of a life now irrevocably lost. He was in a coffin. Buried. But he was *awake*. A cold dread, far deeper than the chill seeping into his skin, settled over him.
A sharp, metallic clang reverberated, followed by the scrape of stone. The thudding resumed, closer now, heavier. He felt the subtle shift of the ground, a slow, inexorable settling that threatened to crush him completely.
"Another layer, then. Ashwin's orders were explicit." The first voice again, closer, the words clearer. "No one mourns a traitor."
Traitor. The word hung in the suffocating blackness. Martin thrashed, a desperate, silent battle against the wooden confines. His hands, long and slender, not his own calloused palms, slammed against the coffin lid. Splinters dug into the skin, a sharp, unfamiliar pain that ignited a spark of rage. This wasn't his body. This wasn't his death.
"Did you hear that?" The younger voice sharpened, a tremor in its tone.
A pause. The thudding stopped. The air grew heavy, thick with unspoken fear.
"Hear what, lad? The wind?" The older man scoffed, but a nervous edge tightened his words.
"A thud. From… from below."
A low growl rumbled in Martin's throat, a sound he didn't recognize, a primal noise that clawed its way past the constricted muscles of his throat. He would not be buried. Not like this. Not in this body.
"It's just your imagination, boy. The ground settling. Now, help me with this stone."
Another thud, louder this time. Martin kicked, his borrowed legs surprisingly strong, slamming against the foot of the coffin. Wood groaned, a protesting shriek in the silent earth.
"Gods above!" The younger man shrieked, a high-pitched cry that sliced through the oppressive quiet. "He's alive! He's moving!"
A scramble of footsteps, the rustle of fabric, then silence. They fled. Martin heard their terrified retreat, the fading echoes of their panic. Relief, a brief, fragile thing, flickered within him. He was alone.
He pushed again, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, a sound of fury and desperation. He felt the wood crack, a splintering groan that promised freedom. His hands, now raw and bleeding, found purchase on the lid, pushing, pushing, until a sliver of light, thin as a blade, pierced the darkness. The scent of fresh earth, cold and damp, flooded his nostrils, chasing away the stench of decay. He dragged himself upwards, muscles screaming, until his face broke through the soil, gasping for air, gulping down the crisp, cold evening. Above him, the pale orb of a full moon shone down on a freshly dug grave, its light illuminating a desolate, windswept hill. The distant silhouette of a vast, spired castle, dark against the bruised twilight sky, loomed like a silent, watchful predator.