Before the local magistrate could parse Ryan’s meticulous explanation of inventory allocation hashes, the paper-screened door of the chamber slid open with a sharp, rattling snap. A breathless page—sweating through his formal cotton tunic with the unmistakable, wide-eyed terror of a junior analyst caught deleting a master spreadsheet—burst into the room. He slammed both palms against the polished cedar floorboards, gasping for air as he delivered an urgent, unyielding summons: the lord chamberlain's office required Ryan's immediate presence in the inner administrative hall to account for a catastrophic series of forged taxation tallies bearing what administrative checkers claimed were his own identifying seals.
Ryan let out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, the exact hollow exhale he usually reserved for a regional director calling an emergency alignment meeting ten minutes before lunch. Shifting the heavy canvas messenger bag higher on his aching shoulder, he gave the panic-stricken page a placid, unimpressed nod, treating the feudal lord's tribunal with the resigned apathy of an employee walking into a rigged performance review. With the weary professionalism of a man simply trying to close out a tedious administrative ticket, he adjusted his jacket and motioned for the page to lead the way down the dim corridor.