The structural reality of having a three-thousand-ton imperial flagship marooned on the harbor's threshold did not invite a quiet night. Even deep within the palace's subterranean scriptorium, the persistent, low-frequency groan of The Dread Sovereign shifting against the limestone shelf vibrated through the floorboards. It was the sound of a massive asset slowly devaluing in real-time, a mechanical death rattle that punctuated the rhythmic ticking of Sarah's newly repaired telegraphic relays.
Elara sat at her small workstation, her charcoal-grey wool coat draped over the back of her chair. Her linen blouse was turned up to the elbows, her forearms smudged with a mixture of graphite dust and the pale blue wax used to seal emergency receivership notices. Before her lay the master ledger of the city's domestic banks—the final line of defense Vaughn had left behind like a series of financial landmines.
