The platter clattered as the servants moved to clear the table. Their every move made them appeared elegant and sound with their work.
Moulin ignored the others. His silver eyes stared at the man that had served him back in his home. His thoughts scrambled, And suspicion rose from his chest. Why was Alaric here? How did he get here?
The man wore black clothes. If he would do out in the middle of the night, he was sure to blend in with the darkness. A sword hanged at the side of his waist, and it was the first time Moulin had saw him with bare hands. Generally, in his estate, the servants wore gloves to attend to their masters except in the bath. The scarred, calloused hands laid bare before Moulin's eyes. It was a sign of the decades of swordsmanship.
Even before his master, Alaric kept his head low, making it difficult for Moulin to determine the emotions in his eyes.
