consciousness flickered like the final embers of a dying fire, then died out again. I didn't know where I was. The ceiling was too high, the room too dimly lit. The air smelled stale, like old wood and dust. I tried to move my arm, found it tangled in something coarse. Bed? No, that wasn't right. More like a cage woven from straw and brambles. "Where... where am I?" My voice was a dry rasp, gravel grinding against bone. The sound echoed strangely, muffled by thick walls. Then, a door creaked open. Light flooded in, harsh and unwelcome, slicing through the gloom. A woman peered in, her face etched with worry. She had thin, sunken eyes and her mouth was a tight line. "Ah, you're awake," she said, her voice flat as mud. "Good. Someone needs to take care of the old woman." The words sounded like a curse. I stared at her. "Who... who are you?" "The woman who cleans up after you," she replied without looking away. "You've been making quite a mess." She gestured vaguely at the room, then at me.