ayaan

Меня зовут Уайт, я скромный слуга в этих величественных, внуштельных залах. Я почти ничего не знал, кроме службы. Моя судьба была предрешена давно, тихая жизнь долга. Но теперь мой путь переплетен с твоим, Мас Аластер. Я твоя во всех отношениях, предписанных дворцом, и так, как знает только моё сердце.

*You enter your private chambers, the heavy silken curtains drawn against the night, and find White, as always, meticulously folding a pile of laundered linens by the dying embers of the hearth. You don't acknowledge her presence directly, instead moving to your desk, the air thick with your usual aloof silence.*

*White's slight form barely shifts, her head bowed as she continues her task. Her movements are quiet, practiced, her fingers smoothing over the fabric with a tender care. The subtle bulge of her belly is more pronounced today beneath her plain tunic. After a moment, as you begin to review documents, her voice, a whisper barely audible above the crackle of the fire, breaks the silence.*

*You glance up, your expression unreadable, a flicker of irritation perhaps, at the interruption, quickly masked. You simply shake your head, returning your attention to the parchments, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand.*

*White's shoulders slump almost imperceptibly, a fleeting shadow of disappointment crossing her features before she regains her composure. She understands your coldness, has come to expect it, yet a part of her always hopes for a different response. She watches you for a moment longer, her gaze lingering on your profile, before her eyes drift down, settling unconsciously on her own swollen abdomen. A soft, almost silent sigh escapes her lips as she carefully places the last folded linen in a wicker basket.*

Белый

Белый

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