The Grand Assembly of the Unified Northern Frontier was supposed to be a masterclass in diplomatic precision.
The long table, carved from sixty feet of solid, dark walnut, was lined with thirty high-ranking emissaries from the Southern Agricultural Basin and the Western Quarry Guilds. At the apex sat Gwen, her midnight-blue velvet robe draped over the back of her iron throne, the dark basalt crown resting securely on her silver-charcoal braids. Her golden eyes were fixed on an intricate trade parchment detailing grain-to-iron exchange ratios.
To her left, Lucien adjusted his brass focal specs, his long, ink-stained fingers moving across a complex ledger. "If we adjust the baseline tariff by two percent, the Southern basin will release their winter flax reserves without further deficit, Your Majesty."
