The brass bell in the Civic Trade Council's chamber echoed thrice before silence took hold.
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass dome above, casting fragmented hues of red, blue, and gold onto the hardwood table below. Around it sat the key architects of Aragon's eastward momentum—engineers, diplomats, scholars, and merchants—all waiting for the Prince to speak.
Prince Lancelot stood at the head of the table, hands behind his back, eyes focused not on the council, but on the map laid out before him—an expanded parchment of East Asia, marked in recent ink with new trade routes, rail line proposals, and provincial annotations.
"We stand," he began, "at the edge of something more delicate than conquest."
His voice, as steady as the ticking of the Council clock, drew their full attention.
"We have laid seeds in Yunnan. Not garrisons. Not banners. Seeds. And they are growing. But seeds must be nurtured, not yanked from the soil before their time."
