The second midnight bell of the Northern Hegemony's capital exchange did not chime; it fell like a heavy iron slab against the frost-bitten stone of the financial district. A biting northern gale layout across the black basalt plazas, carrying the bitter scent of scorched anthracite, raw lard grease, and the cold, wet iron of the nearby naval slips. The massive gas lamps illuminating the exchange's grand portico flickered violently, casting long, fractured shadows across the thousands of outland brokers who had spent the last six hours huddled in the freezing sleet, their leather ledger cases clutched tightly to their chests like shields against a coming artillery barrage.
