Malvoria stood with her arms crossed, watching the scene before her with an unreadable expression. On the surface, everything about the orphanage seemed well-maintained—pristine, even.
The walls were freshly painted, adorned with elegant drapes, the floors polished to a gleaming finish.
Ornate furniture lined the halls, and the caretakers carried themselves with the air of nobles rather than those entrusted with raising abandoned children.
But the more Malvoria watched, the more the cracks in the illusion began to show.
The children's clothes were worn thin, frayed at the edges. Some of them had holes in their tunics, and the way they clung to Elysia so desperately was telling in itself.
Their little faces, though lit with joy at seeing her, were leaner than they should have been—evidence of hunger lurking beneath their excitement.
And yet, the caretakers were draped in rich silks and fine embroidery.
Something wasn't right.
Malvoria's fingers twitched at her side.
