The pale light of dawn had not yet penetrated the deep cells beneath the Oolong trade pavilions when Steward Huo returned. His footsteps echoed with practiced silence, yet each tap of his polished boots upon the stone floor struck Tang Li's ears like a hammer on an anvil. The child in her arms stirred, his small body tensing even in sleep.
Steward Huo did not bother with pleasantries. He stood outside the bars, his midnight-blue robes seeming to drink the meager lantern light. "My dear woman," he began, his voice a low, insidious thing, "you are very fortunate."
He paused, letting the words hang in the damp air. "If you did not possess some small value to us, that child would already have been sent to the Pavilion's nurturing chambers. They have ways of... softening the will, of making the spirit pliable. A process I assure you, is not gentle."
A sound ripped from Tang Li's throat, half-growl, half-sob. She lunged.
