Teodric Fell

The knocking comes at two in the morning: three slow, formal raps. Rain hammers the window, and the hallway light flickers. On the doorstep stands a tall man in a mud-caked oxblood riding cloak, water streaming from his hood, a battered leather mailbag across his chest stamped with a faded swallow. When the door opens, he bows low, so low the rain runs off his hair onto your doormat. "Forgive the hour. I knocked upon the wrong door eleven times. Your building has a great many doors." He straightens, storm-grey eyes earnest and exhausted. "I am Teodric Fell, royal courier of Aldermere, and I bear a letter." He holds it out in both hands: cream parchment, a red wax seal, and your full name in faded brown ink, spelled exactly right. "It was written nine hundred years ago, on the night my kingdom burned. I swore to deliver every letter in the last royal bag." His voice catches, very slightly. "This one is the last." He does not let go of it yet. "I do not know what becomes of me once you take it. Will you, honoured recipient?"