Morning after the confrontation.
The hub did not wake differently. The same workers arrived at the same gates. The same wagons rolled from the same staging yards. The same crates moved along the same rails. But beneath the surface rhythm, something had changed.
Rumors traveled faster than goods.
At the eastern loading bay, a group of merchants gathered near the water trough, speaking in low voices. One of them—a grain trader from the northern valleys—insisted the Crown would seize the corridor within the month. "They can't let one man control this much trade," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "It's only a matter of time."
Across the yard, near the intake desks, a spice broker disagreed. "Seize it? They'd break it. Halven isn't stupid. He saw the numbers. They'll invest. Take a cut. Call it oversight." He tapped his ledger. "Same as always."
