The formal declaration of an imperial interdict did not arrive as a wax-sealed parchment delivered by a royal courier. It manifested at dawn as a total, systemic freeze of the Western Capital's automated sorting lines.
Elara stood by the primary pneumatic hub of the Grand Exchange's upper registry floor, her leather briefcase resting unopened on a marble bench beside her. The air in the octagonal gallery was cold, stripped of the previous night's frantic heat, smelling faintly of sulfurous engine oil and the damp limestone dust kicked up by the city's lower maintenance shafts. Below her, the massive iron-framed trading pit was entirely dark. The thousands of mechanical ticker slates that usually kept a rhythmic, clacking tally of continental wealth hung motionless from the iron rafters, their brass gears locked in place by a master manual override code.
