Rain fell in slow sheets, turning the dirt paths of South Garrison into winding rivers of mud. But inside the warehouse, the air buzzed with energy.
Shen Lian stood before a table piled with bolts of coarse cloth and sacks of refined salt.
"South Garrison has little gold," she said, "but it has what gold buys."
Lin Mu raised a brow. "Salt and silk?"
"Salt for mouths. Silk for influence."
She gestured to the weavers and stewards bustling behind her.
"We open a workshop," she continued. "Employ the widows. Train the orphans. Trade cloth for coin, coin for silence."
That afternoon, Shen Lian met with the head of the southern salt guild. A rotund man with jeweled rings and nervous eyes.
"Taxes have doubled under the last steward," he complained.
"Then cut them," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"Cut the taxes. Not officially. Just for now. I'll cover the difference with depot stores. You'll say nothing, and in return, your routes stay open."
The man hesitated. "You're playing a dangerous game."
She smiled. "Only if I lose."
By evening, bolts of dyed silk bearing the mark of South Garrison were already being traded in nearby towns. Shen Lian's name was not attached—but her design, her ledgers, her strategy were all there.
And the coin returned with interest.
Zhou handed her a note that night.
'Clever foxes rarely dig only one den.'
—Crown Prince
Shen Lian folded the note without a word.
Outside her window, the rain had stopped.
And the roads were drying—for those who knew where to walk.