Uriel's first conscious sensation was cold. It wrapped around him like a cling film, seeping into his bones and nestling deep within his chest. It wasn't the kind of cold that accompanied snow or wind; it was the damp, lifeless chill of stone. His head throbbed with an ache that pulsed behind his temples, and his limbs felt unnaturally heavy, as though his veins had been filled with lead.
The smell hit him next—stale, metallic, and bitter, mingling with the faint, earthy tang of decay. Prison. He'd woken up in cells before, but this was the one cell he'd never wanted to find himself in. The air here was thinner, oppressive. It pressed down on him, disorienting and strange, like the space itself rejected his presence.
He tried to move, his muscles protesting with a dull ache, only to find his neck burning, sharp pain radiating from his throat. His fingers scrambled upward, desperate to identify the source. His nails grazed something rough and unfamiliar. A collar.
