Mei
The Grand Dining Hall was a cavern of gold leaf and predatory tension. Tonight, it had been scrubbed of the medicinal scent of the West Wing, draped instead in the heavy, ancient banners of the Mooncrest line. Crimson and silver silk hung from the vaulted rafters, shivering in the draft like the skin of a nervous animal.
Officially, it was a "Welcome Home" feast. In reality, it felt like a public autopsy of Alaric's reign.
Mei stood in the shadows of the gallery, her fingers interlaced so tightly her knuckles were white. She was technically off-duty, but Alaric's bond wouldn't let her rest. It was pulling at her solar plexus, a hot, jagged tether of anxiety that told her he was drowning in the middle of the room.
