Alaric
Dawn came slowly to the mountain. It did not rise so much as bleed into existence; pale light filtering through the tall windows of the West Wing balcony. The sky was a cold wash of gray and silver; the remnants of the storm still clinging to the air. Everything felt muted. Held in suspension.
Alaric sat in his chair; facing the open doors. He had not slept. The bond had not allowed it. It had burned through the night with a restless; jagged energy; echoing Mei's lingering fear and the sharp; metallic imprint Lucian had carved into it. Even now; hours later; he could still feel it. The ghost of that moment.
The slice of pain that had not been his own. His hands tightened slightly on the armrests. The memory replayed without mercy. The sudden spike. The heat. The unmistakable taste of blood through the bond. He had felt it as if it were his own skin that had been cut.
His jaw flexed. He had not been there. Again. The thought was a blade that never dulled.
