The Kingdom of Albert, Ministry of Finance. The monthly balance meeting room.
Chief Treasury Officer Graham ran his eyes over the balance sheets spread across the long table three times.
All three times, the numbers were the same.
"...Mineral customs revenue. Against three thousand two hundred luka for the same month last year—"
His voice cracked, just slightly.
"This month: one thousand nine hundred and twenty luka."
At the end of the room, he heard a young secretary catch his breath.
Forty percent. Down forty percent from the same month last year.
"Revenue from the surcharge on woolen customs fees—zero."
"Zero, sir?"
"Zero."
The secretary copied the figures with trembling fingers. His pen tip knocked against the rim of the inkwell with a small click.
"The report from the Mineral Merchants' Guild."
Graham broke the wax seal on the desk.
"Effective this term, this company shall reroute its trade through the neutral nation of Porto. Furthermore, this notice constitutes a formal procedure under the bylaws of the Merchants' Guild Association, and carries no obligation to reply to your Ministry."
Notices of similar wording lay stacked on the desk.
Twenty-three of them.
"Lady Rosalind..."
The one who murmured it was Graham himself.
He had not called her. Nor had he prayed. It had simply slipped from his mouth, of its own accord.
In the seat across from him, his deputy, Henrik, spoke in a low voice.
"When I heard that she had pumped her fist in triumph, right there as her engagement was broken off—I..."
"Don't say it."
"I laughed."
"Henrik."
"Forgive me. But, Treasury Chief—"
Henrik planted his hands on the desk. His knuckles had gone white.
"She was never someone who deserved to be laughed at."
Graham did not answer.
He only looked once more at the bottom row of the balance sheet—the column marked "Projected Losses from Trade Restructuring (Next Term)"—at the figure he had entered there himself that morning.
Seven digits.
Roughly a tenth of the kingdom's annual budget.
At the same hour. The courtyard of the royal palace.
Crown Prince Alfred, finished with his sword practice, was wiping the sweat from his neck with a silk towel.
"Ha, today's training felt exceptional."
The young knight attending him nodded hastily.
"Y-yes, Your Highness. It was splendid."
"My swordsmanship gets better every year. This, too, is the duty of one who would be king."
Alfred laughed in satisfaction and handed his sword to a servant.
Just then, Chancellor Morgan came hurrying over, a leather-bound report clutched to his chest.
"Your Highness."
"Ah, Chancellor."
"A moment of your time, if I may."
"We can talk while we walk. What is it—don't tell me the Ministry of Finance lot are making a fuss again."
Alfred gave a wry smile.
"Those people see nothing but numbers. They can't see the bigger picture of the kingdom. It is the virtue of a king that brings peace to the people, not ledgers. I tell them that all the time."
He nodded, enraptured, at his own words. His self-image as "the kind Crown Prince" was smoothly updating itself once again today.
"Your Highness, please, look at this."
Morgan held out the report.
Alfred took it in one hand and flipped through it as he walked.
Rows of numbers. Charts. Minerals. Woolens. Fees. —And then his eyes stopped on a certain line.
"Rosalind Abel."
There, midway through the report, was her name, printed in type.
Beside it was a note: "Economic Advisor, the Grand Duchy of Vernant."
Alfred's feet very nearly stopped, for half a step.
"Forty percent...?"
He ran his eyes over the figure on the page once more. Somewhere deep in his chest, he heard something small drop with a soft little clink.
But before his pride, that sound was quieter than the beating of an insect's wings.
Alfred's mouth promptly returned to its usual shape.
"That woman is still doing such fiddly little work, over in the neighboring country?"
"...Your Highness."
"How petty."
He spat the words out and shoved the report back at the Chancellor.
"It's nothing more than shuffling some tariffs around. Our nation's finances are rock-solid. Let the neighbors scrape together their pocket change; it won't hurt our purse."
"Your Highness, this is—"
"There's no problem whatsoever."
Alfred clapped the Chancellor on the shoulder, all smiles.
"You worry too much, Morgan. Don't let the Ministry of Finance's ravings lead you around by the nose. Handle the fiddly details yourself."
And with that, he left the Chancellor behind and vanished down the colonnade with a light step.
Chancellor Morgan watched that back for a long while.
Then he gripped the cover of the report in both hands.
A single cold thread ran down his spine.
Deep within the royal palace.
In the Saint's chambers, Miria stood before a full-length mirror, pinching up the hem of a newly made pale pink gown.
"Say, couldn't this hem be made just a little longer?"
"As you wish, Lady Miria."
The maid nodded, then added, as if in passing:
"Oh, that reminds me, Lady Miria. The merchants were gossiping this morning. They say the kingdom's tariff income has fallen off quite a lot."
"Oh my."
In the mirror, Miria tilted her head.
A small dimple formed in her cheek. A perfectly practiced angle.
"Goodness. Could that be Big Sister's doing?"
She gave a thin little laugh.
"How diligent she is with her work, even in a neighboring country. It must be so very tiring for her."
The maid smiled with her mouth only, and nodded.
_—Will this gown be finished in time? Since last month, the silk supply has been visibly dwindling._
The merchants had said it in hushed voices. —All the fine silk was flowing to the Grand Duchy of Vernant now, by way of Porto.
The government offices, too, had cut the allowance granted to the Saint's workshop yet again this month.
The rest stayed caught in the back of the maid's throat. Spoiling the Saint's mood was far more frightening.
_—If the silk road closes, this gown can never be sewn again._
Not one person in this room had realized that yet.
Miria turned back to the mirror, flared her hem once more, and admired her reflection.
"But it doesn't matter to me anymore."
She whispered it as though telling it only to herself.
"From here on, it's my era."
The woman in the mirror kept smiling.
She, too, did not yet know what had begun.
That same evening. The Grand Duchy of Vernant, the Economic Advisor's office.
Rosalind was running her quill across next month's work plan, spread out on her desk.
"Next, let us look at the currency system. Next month's silver inflow and—"
Beside her, the chief clerk nodded.
"We'll have the silver price estimates prepared on our end first."
"That would be most helpful. And next week's harbor inspection—would you schedule it for a time that doesn't conflict with the escort ships?"
"Understood, my lady."
Her pen tip glided lightly across the paper.
In Rosalind's mind, not a single letter of her homeland remained.
Just then, there was a low knock at the office door.
Lucas came in with his usual blank expression, walked up to the desk, and spoke briefly.
"There's a banquet at the palace next week."
"Yes."
"You'll attend as well. As Economic Advisor."
Rosalind nodded without stopping her pen.
"Understood, as an extension of my duties."
"Duties, hm."
The corners of Lucas's mouth moved, ever so slightly.
Rosalind did not notice the expression.
Only the chief clerk, pretending to square the corners of his documents, gazed off into the distance and counted the beams in the ceiling.
In the margin of her plan, Rosalind neatly added: "Banquet — attend (duties)."
Then, on the line below, she wrote in one more entry.
Next month — Review of the currency system
Outside the window, the grand duchy's setting sun was dyeing the city gold.
In the homeland's Ministry of Finance, at just about that time, the lamps were only beginning to be lit.
Beneath the lamplight, the Chief Treasury Officer was turning through the balance sheets once again.
No matter how many times he turned them, the numbers were the same.
_—A forty percent drop was only the beginning._
Next month, what Rosalind would set her hand to was the currency itself.
The homeland did not yet know.