The physical return to the capital was less a triumphant march and more an exercise in structural exhaustion. Elara didn't change out of her salt-encrusted riding leathers when the carriage cleared the palace gates; she walked straight into the lower minting vaults, her boots leaving a faint white trail of dried marsh brine on the polished granite stairs.
The vaults beneath the treasury were hot, thick with the heavy scent of molten copper, zinc, and grease. The rhythmic, earth-shaking thud of the steam-driven coin presses filled the subterranean chambers, a industrial heartbeat that drowned out the distant murmurs of the city above.
