The Distant Joke
The pain in Sir Ewan’s left knee was not a dull ache but a sharp, localized scream, a white-hot needle driven into the bone that made him stagger against the cold stone of the King’s antechamber. He was forty years old, a court physician whose hands had saved half the nobility of the realm, yet in this moment he was merely a man struggling to keep his balance while the fever in his son’s blood...
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