The Distant Joke
The letter lay on the oak desk, the ink still wet in the corners where the seal had been pressed. Elara read the bureaucratic header, *Office of the High Steward, Formal Inquest*, and felt the cold weight of the parchment against her fingertips. She did not look up when the door creaked; she knew the footstep was heavy, deliberate, and accompanied by the smell of expensive wine and old paper....
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