«Ambassador Zolokis?» Alexander mutters, narrowing his brows. He clenched the knife with his gloved hand, but he soon relaxes, remembering the situation we're in.
He's now used to cutting food with his left hand since he doesn't take the glove off before sleep. Months have passed from the day he was injured. There must be a scar on his palm, but I've never seen it because he hides it away.
Is it because of me?
But most of all, is this the right moment to think about this? There are more urgent matters.
For example, the fact that my uncle passed by here and decided to mess around. The Viscount isn't a noble from the court. His fief isn't all that vast, but it has quite the population.
People live off agriculture and livestock, especially cows. They do not eat the meat but make cheese and other similar products. One should be able to live well in these conditions, but somehow peasants are impoverished and hungry.
