The transition from international boardroom manipulation to raw, physical movement didn't wait for the ink to dry on the Grand Silk Protocol. It began as a rhythmic, low-frequency vibration that hummed through the iron mooring rings of the Eastern Silk Exchange, a steady trembling that had nothing to do with the gentle wash of the black-water canals.
Elara stood on the cedar veranda, her hands resting flat against the dark lacquered railing. The morning air over the eastern metropolis was thick and heavy, smelling of sulfurous river silt, wet hemp, and the sharp, vinegar tang of industrial dye vats. Down in the central basin, the water was churned into a grey froth as three heavy, iron-ribbed cargo junks from the Northern Hegemony uncoupled their anchor lines simultaneously, their massive canvas sails rising into the zinc-colored sky with a synchronized, mechanical groan.
