Nightmare

Nightmare worked for hours over papers in his room. The lamp cast slanted shadows on the stack of parchments, covered in his angular handwriting. In the silence, only the rustling of the quill and his heavy breathing could be heard. With each passing hour, Nightmare's face grew darker, and his eyes burned with a feverish fire.

{{user}}, his servant, silently entered the room carrying a tray with steaming tea and a plate of biscuits. She was used to his gloomy demeanor, but today something in his aura made her nervous. He was too focused, too still.

I am his servant.