In a place across worlds, a man will wake up in the middle of the night. Disorientated for the instant it takes to come to full awareness, he will look around himself and slowly recognise the familiar surroundings. After a brief moment to collect himself, he will lever himself out of bed and walk confidently through the darkened room to the door. Pushing it open, he will behold its keeper.

“Can’t sleep, my lord?” the guardian will ask respectfully.

“No,” the lord will answer shortly. “Order some wine for me.” The keeper will bow even as the door closes, its quiet click resounding with finality.

The lord will move over to his desk and touch a delicately carved item upon it. The item will light up, its carved design sending golden and ruby rays around the room as if it’s a fire caged inside a gemstone. The lord will then sit in a chair in front of a cold hearth, propping one heel up on a footrest. There he will rest motionlessly, the features of his face cast into shadow.

It won’t be long before a light tap will fall upon the door.

“Enter,” the lord will say in tones clearly used to command, the first time he will have moved since settling into the chair. The door opening quickly, light will filter into the room, falling upon the rich fabrics used in decoration. With the closing of the door, the gleam will disappear, veiling the extravagance in a shroud of darkness once more. The lord’s gaze will light upon the man who has entered the room, bearing with him a tray carrying a jug and a finely-stemmed glass.

The newcomer will tilt his head in respect for the seated figure, then will advance to place his tray on a side table. Going to one knee, he will pour a pale liquid from the jug into the glass. As the liquid meets the crystalline material, condensation will form on its surface.

“You didn’t need to rouse yourself.” The lord’s tone will be low, almost gruff.

“With all due respect, my lord,” the other man will reply matter-of-factly, “brooding in the middle of the night is one of your least appealing features. Brooding alone, however, is infinitely worse.”

“I thought I employed a manservant, not a mother-hen,” the lord will reply with a foreboding air. The manservant will seem unconcerned.

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“A good manservant can be either or both, as the situation calls for,” he will reply a little primly. The lord will lose his forbidding expression as a smile curls the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, what would I do without you, Sarran?”

“Walk around in poorly fitting clothes and be constantly exhausted from excessive midnight brooding,” the so-called Sarran will reply promptly. The smile curling the corner of the lord’s mouth will turn into a full-blown grin. The change in expression will light up the lord’s face and make him seem almost handsome. “Now, what calls you to summon midnight wine, my lord? Is it the King’s decree again?” The smile on the lord’s face will fade as he sighs.

“Is it ever far from my mind? But no, I was actually sleeping this time when something roused me.” His eyes will take a far-away look as he attempts to determine the source of the disruption to his slumber.

“Perhaps something in your status has changed?” the manservant will suggest. There will be no verbal reply, but the sudden glazed look in the lord’s eyes will be proof that he is taking Sarran’s advice. It will be some minutes before he continues the conversation. The manservant will wait patiently, his eyes tracking the beads of water that will have formed on the glass’s underside. They will be sliding down to dampen the base of the glass before the lord responds once more. This response will not be verbal; instead a surprised huff of air will escape him. The manservant will continue to wait.

“Well, tears of the gods.” The curse will be sufficiently out of character that it will cause the manservant’s eyebrows to rise.

“My lord?”

“He’s done something significant,” the lord will say almost absently.

“He, my lord?” Sarran knows his master well, but as little context as is given, even he will be confused. The lord will regain the sharpness to his gaze which indicates he has closed his status screen.

“The candidate.”

“The one you…”

“The very same.” Sarran’s eyebrows will knit together in confusion.

“But, forgive me, my lord: I thought you would not know the complete results of that until the candidate arrives – or doesn’t.” The lord will nod sharply.

“That is true, but we are still linked through the ritual. If the candidate should fail to pay the Energy debt, it shall fall upon me. In accordance with the System’s sense of fairness, I can see whether he is making any progress in it.”

“Am I to understand that he has made some progress, my lord?” the manservant will inquire curiously.

“Some progress?” the lord will scoff. “A jump of approximately seventy percent of the debt.” Sarran’s eyebrows will once more climb his forehead.

“My understanding is that the amount of Energy required to advance increases significantly with each ten percent accrued. As it does with each level.”

“It does.”

“Then how…?” The manservant will be unable to finish his sentence. The lord will shake his head.

“I don’t know.” Then he will smile again, his eyes alight with a sudden excited gleam. “But I look forward to finding out.”