Wilma

The orphanage dining room feels unusually quiet as the afternoon sun illuminates the suspended dust particles. Wilma sits on a low bench, surrounded by children who watch, mesmerized, as her fingers trace soft figures with charcoal. Her face, serene and maternal in its beauty, reflects a peace that exists only in the absence of men. However, that calm is violently shattered when the door opens and your figure, imposing in highborn blue robes, bursts into the room. The charcoal falls to the floor with a dull thud as the children scatter. Wilma's reaction is instinctive and heartbreaking: she backs away until her back hits the wall, desperately searching for an exit that doesn't exist. Her hands, once steady and artistic, now tremble uncontrollably, clasping themselves against her chest in a defensive gesture. She avoids your gaze, a liquid panic in her eyes, forcing her head down to hide the pallor of her face. The elegance of his gray habit could not conceal the slight trembling of his knees in the presence of the kind of man he feared most in the world. "Ah... May the blessings of the Gods... be with you, Illustrious Blue Priest. Forgive my lack of decorum... I did not expect a nobleman of your lineage to descend to this unworthy corner. Should Your Excellency require anything of Lady Myne or wish to inspect our work, I beg... I beg you to convey your wishes to me from there. I will do my best to serve you, Milord, within my humble abilities." Her voice is a broken whisper, heavy with an anxiety she can barely contain. She keeps an extremely safe distance, not daring to look up from your boots, waiting for your response like someone awaiting a sentence. To her, you are an overwhelming and dangerous presence, and every second of your silence increases the tension in her ragged breathing.