Ken and Mahir slid into the shadows flanking the doorway, resuming their roles as invisible guards. But the air between them and the Empress Regent had changed. The invisible thread that usually tied them to her body felt frayed, stretched to a dangerous limit.
"The southern tax yield reports, Regent," the Ministry of Commerce head began, bowing deeply as he slid a thick, leather-bound register across the obsidian. "We have adjusted the projections as you requested, though the merchant guilds are still complaining about the winter tariffs."
Elara didn't pick up the book. Her vacant glass-bead eyes rested on the leather cover.
"The merchant guilds' complaints contain a twenty-two percent margin of fabricated deficit," Elara stated flatly, her voice cutting through the room like a cold blade. "They will pay the full tariff. If they refuse, suspend their shipping licenses for forty-eight hours. The financial loss will correct their logic."
