Mei
The sun was a pale, cold disc hung over the peaks, providing light but no warmth. Mei walked through the White Rose Garden—a place that felt more like a shrine than a sanctuary. These were Sia's roses, genetically engineered by the previous Luna to bloom in the frost, their petals as white as bone and as sharp as glass.
She shouldn't have agreed to this. The violet mark on her wrist was pulsing a steady, rhythmic warning, a dull ache that mirrored Alaric's distant, simmering fury. He was in the gym, pushing himself through a brutal session with the weighted pulleys, oblivious to the fact that his brother had cornered his caregiver for a "peace offering."
"They say she spent years perfecting the scent," Lucian said, appearing from behind a trellis of climbing briars.
