Viola sat in that magnificent armchair with its cold metallic texture. Through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of the tower laboratory, she could overlook the entire camp operating like a steel machine.
Her posture was supremely elegant, her long hair cascading like a silver waterfall. The simple yet noble white robe she wore made her seem like a flawless sculpture of ice and snow.
At that moment, her gaze rested on a colleague in the center of the laboratory, dressed in the robes of a Level 2 Wizard.
The wizard's face was twisted by intense inner conflict. Fine beads of sweat covered his forehead, his hands clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
His eyes kept drifting toward the glass bottle on the table before him, filled with a blood-red Magic Potion that gave off an enticing fragrance.
Viola did not urge him. Her expression was even somewhat indifferent, as though she were merely a spectator enjoying an inconsequential pantomime.
Yet if one looked closely, one would discover that the threads of amusement deep in Viola's eyes were nearly spilling over.
Like a deep, frigid pool reflecting a prey's final struggle.
This torment was precisely the moment Viola enjoyed most.
The wizard's inner world was undoubtedly undergoing a violent storm. Reason battled instinct; the desire to grow stronger and the fear of ultimate pain were tearing wildly at the depths of his soul.
This silent torture struck closer to the essence than any physical interrogation.
After a long while, the wizard finally emerged from his prolonged mental struggle, his body even trembling slightly.
In the end, as though he had made some kind of decision, he gritted his teeth and bought that bottle of Magic Potion from Viola.
He did not say another word, nor did he