"I'm not dead," I shouted, fist pounding the wood until my knuckles burned.
"Shh!" a distant voice hissed through stone. The chant continued outside, muffled and ritual-smooth. The lid scraped under my palm and gave a hair of motion.
"Open! I'm not dead!" I yelled again, louder. My voice sounded wrong in my own ears—no hospital beeps, no fluorescent hum—only the smell of dust and cedar.
My fingers found a seam. The coffin split a centimeter. I breathed and pushed, the board resisting like someone holding a secret. My elbow scraped against coarse linen. The linen gave, and my hand found cold metal.
"Who is there?" someone demanded from beyond the corridor. Footsteps shuffled, ordered and slow.
I shoved, slammed my shoulder into wood. The lid cracked wider and I could see a narrow wedge of dim sky, a smear of torchlight. The second I had room, I crawled up and out, my body cramped from being folded small, the fabric of a funeral robe stiff against my skin.
"I'm not dead," I said again, but quieter. My voice trembled and then steadied. I sat up, panting, and checked my hands. They were callused with blood under my nails—someone else's. My fingers brushed funeral makeup dust.
The chamber around me was carved stone and ash. A second sarcophagus sat opposite, carved with a crest I did not recognize. Armor dulled with age lay half-rolled away. A shadow shifted beside the stone
