The Gilded Cage of Ash

The ash storm woke you—not with sound, but with pressure, a weight in the air that pressed against your eardrums like a held breath. You sat up in a bed that smelled of lavender and rot, the sheets embroidered with initials that weren't yours. The clock on the mantel ticked backward, its hands sweeping counterclockwise with a calm, maddening patience.

Your scar throbbed. A thin, pale line across your ribs, hot as a fresh brand. You touched it through the nightshirt and felt something beneath the skin—a wire, perhaps, or a seam. Something that should not be there.

The door opened. The Steward stood in the frame, polished as a funeral mirror, his smile a practiced crescent. "You're awake, my lord. The storm will pass by evening. We have pheasant for dinner, and the Gardener has coaxed the roses into bloom."

His eyes flicked to your ribs. Just for a moment. Then he stepped aside, and you saw, in the hallway behind him, a child's drawing pinned to the wall: a house on a hill, a stick figure waving, and a name written in crayon beneath it.

Your name.

The one you can't quite place.

The Steward followed your gaze and said, too quickly, "The previous tenant's. Nothing to concern yourself with."