The gray ink on the maritime ledger had barely dried before the pressure in the lower harbor vaults began to shift. It wasn't the wind—though the coastal gale was currently screaming through the iron-bound vents of the southern sea wall, throwing freezing spray against the heavy granite blocks—but the distinct, low-frequency hum of heavy machinery vibrating through the seafloor.
Elara stood on the damp flagstones of the primary bastion overlook, her fingers curled tightly around the cold stone railing. Her charcoal coat was buttoned to the throat, the collar turned up against the bitter salt mist, but she didn't feel the chill. Her focus was entirely on the southern horizon, where the dark, jagged silhouettes of the Western Empire's main battle fleet were breaking through the morning fog line.
