The dawn that broke over the Southern capital did not arrive with a celebratory flare; it was a thin, grey light that crept sluggishly over the slate roofs of the Free-Trade Zone. From the eastern balcony of the palace's administrative wing, the city looked like an intricate clockwork mechanism caught between gears. The smoke from the early morning bakeries rose straight into the cold, still air, indifferent to the fact that the entire economic foundation of the continent had shifted three hours before sunrise.
Elara leaned against the stone balustrade, a cup of bitter, over-steeped chicory twisting between her palms. Her tailored suit jacket was gone, rolled up into a ball on the floor of the adjoining office, leaving her in a wrinkled linen blouse with the sleeves turned up to her elbows. Her fingers felt stiff, stained with a mixture of graphite dust and the dried grease of old mechanical gears.
