Galliard stood with his arms tucked neatly behind his back, eyes occasionally flickering toward the Palace gates. He pondered the identity of the guest his lord was expecting, the so-called informant Frejlurd mentioned to his lord.
The day had begun like any other. Servants moved like clockwork, sweeping marble floors, dusting antique artifacts and trimming the hedges outside. It was routine, but tension hung faintly in the air, like morning mist.
"My lord." Galliard asked as he approached Estefan, who sat lazily on a velvet couch in the large hall, a cup of coffee in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. "When shall we expect the guest?"
Estefan didn't glance up from the newspaper. "Soon." He muttered, turning a page. "Frejlurd said they'd arrive sometime this morning. I'd rather not look disheveled in front of someone bearing valuable secrets."
