"We should print more money."
The words left me before I had fully settled back into my chair.
I didn't mean to say it so lightly. It landed in the room like it belonged there anyway, which bothered me more than it should have.
Paper covered most of the desk now—commercial invoices, reserve reports, trade confirmations, shipping estimates. A clearing house audit lay open near my hand, several sections already marked with ink where corrections and concerns had been noted earlier in the day.
The lamps cast a warm glow over the documents, though the corners of the room remained dim. Outside the tall windows, evening had already begun settling over the capital.
Snow pressed softly against the glass.
Not heavily. Just enough to blur the outlines of the buildings beyond.
"That is correct."
The minister spoke without looking up. His pen scratched steadily across another sheet before finally pausing. He removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
There was no pushback in his tone. Just acceptance. That almost made it worse.
"You wish to build a refinery."
He exhaled quietly.
"You see what the late general considered a problematic move."
The room smelled faintly of ink and heated metal from the radiator pipes running along the walls. Every so often, they clicked softly as heat moved through them.
"After this trade," he continued, straightening several reports into a neater stack, "the gold reserve has reduced by twenty."
He tapped the document once with the side of his finger.
"With the current money in circulation, we may not be able to pay for construction while maintaining stability."
I leaned back slightly. The chair creaked beneath me.
It was frustrating how cleanly that logic held together.
"The reserve ratio has remained one-to-one for too long," he said. "It slows progress."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the window.
"Just look at the battle in Twin Hill Province."
I did.
Or rather, I remembered.
Entire offensives had slowed not because men refused to fight, but because ammunition, steel, fuel, and food could no longer be purchased fast enough once reserves tightened. Factories sat waiting while armies bled time.
The war had nearly been lost to hesitation disguised as caution.
I didn't like how easily that memory still explained things.
The minister sighed.
Snow drifted outside in slow white currents.
If we adjusted the reserve ratio to fifty percent—
My thoughts stalled there.
Fifty percent sounded wrong. And yet not impossible. That was the uncomfortable part.
When I looked back toward him, he had already resumed writing. His pen moved steadily across a draft agreement involving Sharq trade routes, his concentration returning with unsettling speed, as though our conversation remained active somewhere behind his eyes while the rest of him continued processing state affairs.
I lifted my wine. The red surface shifted faintly before settling again.
"How long would the refinery take?" I asked.
The warmth lingered briefly in my throat.
He flipped a page.
"Six to ten years."
No hesitation.
"We would still rely on foreign refinement in the meantime."
Another line of ink. Another note added.
"But once operational…"
A faint smile surfaced across his face.
"It would refine even Aether fuel."
I stilled.
"Aether fuel," I repeated.
The phrase always felt slightly too large for the room it was said in.
Even now, it carried weight.
The substance had changed everything—engines, transit, industry, warfare. Entire fields of research had reorganized themselves around it in less than a generation.
And still, no one spoke about it like it was safe.
Not really.
The first large-scale attempt to industrialize it had ended in disaster severe enough that entire treaties now existed solely to slow technological acceleration until the world's Aether stabilized around each advancement.
Knowledge had outpaced tolerance once already.
No one wished to repeat that mistake.
"Is Aether fuel truly that valuable?" I asked.
I already knew the answer. I think I just wanted to hear how it was justified out loud.
The minister gave a short laugh through his nose and leaned back slightly.
"But of course.
"Liquid Aether sells for twice—sometimes thrice—the value of crude oil."
The numbers settled heavily into the room.
I adjusted my dress unconsciously, smoothing a fold at my knee while my thoughts moved ahead without permission.
A refinery capable of refining Aether fuel.
Influence. Independence. Pressure points.
And something else I didn't like naming.
The minister returned to writing. The scratching of his pen filled the silence between us while snow continued drifting steadily beyond the windows.
"How is everyone reacting?" I asked eventually. "To our actions."
I tucked a loose strand of hair back into place.
My voice came out more measured than I felt.
His pen stopped again.
"With concern."
This time he reached for his tea.
"The first failed attempt still lingers heavily in public memory."
Steam brushed briefly across his face before fading.
"Some view your expansion efforts as preparation for military action."
I frowned.
Not sharply.
Just enough for the thought to catch.
That wasn't entirely wrong. It just wasn't the intention either. I think.
"I should speak with the Master of Ordnance," I murmured, tapping the end of my pen lightly against the desk.
The rhythm echoed softly through the office.
"And the new Lieutenant General."
Another tap.
"One can never be too careful."
The minister looked at me over the rim of his cup.
"But they can."
I paused.
"What?"
He set the tea down carefully before adjusting his tie.
"One can become too careful," he said calmly, "and it becomes just as inconvenient as recklessness."
That sat uncomfortably close to truth.
I didn't like that it did.
"I see."
Outside, the wind pushed harder against the snowfall. White swept sideways past the windows in uneven currents before dissolving into the darkening city beyond.
"Thank you," I said.
The minister nodded once and rose, collecting several completed documents into a leather folder.
"You should head home.
"And enjoy the remainder of the Crimson Peak celebration."
I glanced toward the window again.
The moon's red glow barely reached through the storm now.
Muted. Distant. Still there, if you knew where to look.
"I should," I admitted.
Not because I wanted to stop working.
Because continuing didn't feel like a choice either.
There would still be lanterns lit across the city. Music somewhere. Families gathered indoors beneath warm light while the snow buried the streets outside.
The work could continue tomorrow.
Or rather—
It would continue tomorrow whether I rested or not.
I rose, gathering my gloves from the desk before following him toward the exit.
The hallway beyond carried warmth unevenly. One end remained comfortable while colder drafts slipped in near the stairwell each time the entrance doors opened below.
By the time I stepped outside, snow had already begun catching against my sleeves.
The cold bit sharper than expected. I let it, briefly, as if it could reset something.
Fresh powder gave softly beneath my boots as I descended the steps, each footprint disappearing almost as quickly as it formed.
The weather had decided the day would not feel festive after all.
"Take care, Minister," I said as the carriage door was opened for me.
He declined my earlier offer again with a small wave.
"I live nearby."
Snow had already gathered lightly across his shoulders.
I watched him walk away for a moment before stepping into the carriage myself.
The interior held lingering warmth.
Barely.
I settled into the seat as the driver urged the horses forward.
The city passed slowly beyond the frost-touched windows.
Lanterns glowed red through the snowfall like distant embers buried beneath ash. Shops remained open despite the weather. Figures crossed the streets with lowered heads and silver-trimmed umbrellas while festival banners strained against the wind overhead.
The moon and silver sun remained hidden behind the storm.
But not completely.
The moon's red still bled faintly through the white veil above the city—diluted, distant, impossible to erase.
I watched it quietly.
And as the carriage rolled onward, another thought settled where the earlier confidence had been.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Just the uncomfortable clarity that some decisions don't stay contained to where they're made.
They spread.