Mayor Mare’s office was full of parchment. Some behind glass cases, some loose sheaves, some bound in books, and a single piece on the desk in front of her, half-full of her loopy handwriting. The room even smelled of parchment, a unique scent that only formed when the material combined with ink. The pony herself sat staring at me with an artificially blank expression.

“Dead when I found him.”

Mayor Mare blinked. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I said.

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