The international tickers did not pause to celebrate a sovereign victory. In the high-frequency trading vaults of the Western Capital, three hundred leagues from the marble steps of the High Arbiters' tribunal, the morning numbers began to cascade through the glass data-tubes before the grease on the court's final decree was dry.
Elara stood before the central projection grid of the Southern Treasury's newly integrated clearing house. Her charcoal suit jacket was draped over the back of her iron stool, the sleeves of her white linen shirt rolled neatly to the elbows, exposing forearms still smudged with the graphite of a dozen manual asset cross-checks. Beside her, the master data-vault hummed a low, mechanical monotone, its internal cooling fans fighting the oppressive humidity of a room packed with ninety-two regional telegraph lines.
