The night was as thick as ink. The last remaining torch in the courtyard, its oil nearly spent, cast a dim light, throwing distorted, flickering shadows upon the stone house's glass window.
Murphy sat cross-legged in quiet meditation. The flow of Qi within his body had reached a state of perfect, unimpeded harmony. His mind sank into a profound trance, almost merging with the warm bearskin rug beneath him and the dry air of the room.
Just as the dead of night fell into utter silence, a series of hurried, deliberately muffled footsteps broke the tranquility. They approached from a distance, finally stopping outside the stone house's door.
It was not an Attendant. The footsteps had the distinct, heavy tread of military boots.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
This was followed by three clear yet restrained knocks. The force was just right—enough to wake a light sleeper, but not so much as to seem brash.
