The stack of agricultural ledgers on the imperial oak desk was exactly three feet high, and Gwen was currently staring at line forty-two of the western iron-ore distribution margins with an expression that could have turned a frost-giant to gravel. The dark basalt crown sat heavily on her silver-charcoal braids, its raw gold veins pulsing in a slow, jagged rhythm that perfectly mirrored the exhaustion hum in her internal solar furnace.
"The transport costs for the Sector Seven timber are exceeding our primary calculations by three percent, Lucien," Gwen muttered, her flat, authoritative baritone dropping into a gravelly rasp. She didn't look up from the parchment, her calloused fingers tightening around her brass charting pen. "If the Southern Basin doesn't lower their tariff on the hydraulic valves, we are going to have a deficit in the construction budget before—"
Snap.
