Mei
The West Wing study was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and the ghostly, silver glow of the moon bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Alaric was asleep in his chair. It wasn't the peaceful slumber of a man at rest; it was the bone-deep, jagged exhaustion of a soldier who had spent every ounce of his spirit holding back a landslide. His head was tilted back against the leather, his jaw still tight even in unconsciousness, and his hands—scarred and powerful—rested limply on his useless thighs.
Mei stood by the window, the silver locket clutched in her palm. The metal felt like a live coal, pulsing with that greasy, parasitic rhythm Mira had warned her about.
He's listening, she thought, her eyes darting toward the dark corners of the ceiling as if she could see Lucian's amber eyes peering through the stone. Every breath Alaric takes, every heartbeat... it's all being fed back to that snake.
