The ink on the Western Empire's legal petition was barely dry, but the structural damage it caused to the morning's victory was already visible. In the private briefing room behind the Grand Hall, the air was thick with the heat of oil lamps and the bitter smell of cold tallow. The euphoria from clearing the trading floor had evaporated, replaced by the grim, tedious reality of international litigation.
Elara sat at the head of the long oak table, her fingers massaging the bridge of her nose. Her tablet sat flat on the wood before her, its blue light casting sharp, angular shadows across the pages of the freshly unrolled Western document.
