Mei
The tray felt heavier than it should have.
It wasn't the porcelain. Not the teapot; not the delicate cup; not even the small dish of honey balanced carefully at the edge. Mei had carried far heavier things before; buckets of melted ice; crates of supplies; the quiet weight of survival pressed into her hands day after day.
This was different.
The corridor was too quiet. The servant's passageways were never lively; but they were not supposed to feel like this. The torches along the stone walls flickered unevenly; their light stretching shadows into long; warped shapes that clung to the edges of her vision. The flames bent in a draft she could not feel; as though something unseen was moving through the narrow space ahead of her.
Mei adjusted her grip on the tray; careful not to let the porcelain shift.
