The charcoal ink on the latest mobilization layout was still slick when Bastian slid the wooden map weights across the table. Outside, the slate-grey morning over the capital was choked by a heavy, freezing fog that rolled off the river slips, burying the lower docks in a damp, suffocating shroud. The industrial thud of the minting presses downstairs had slowed to a steady, deliberate pulse, a heavy counter-rhythm to the quiet tension holding the briefing room captive.
Elara didn't lean over the table. She stood perfectly upright, her hands tucked into the deep pockets of her charcoal woolen coat, her gaze tracking the sharp, geometric boundary lines Sarah had plotted onto the regional chart. The dead tablet sat in its wooden tray by her elbow, a useless block of silicon, but her internal calculations were moving faster than any network build.
