Mei
The morning air at Mooncrest did not merely chill; it bit. It was a predator's breath, smelling of ancient stone and the sharp, metallic promise of snow. Mei pulled her wool cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric damp from the clinging mist that refused to burn off, even as the pale sun climbed toward its zenith.
She wasn't supposed to be out here. Her official duties involved the West Wing—changing Alaric's linens, monitoring the steady, rhythmic hiss of his portable oxygen concentrator during his low-energy bouts, and enduring the silent, golden weight of his gaze. But Lucian's voice had become a splinter in her mind, festering and hot.
Fluid leaks under pressure.
