The fleet from Dawnlight Harbor had set sail, its white sails gradually vanishing into the sea mist beneath the morning light.
Louis did not stay at the harbor to celebrate. That was only the beginning of a long voyage. His destination was Red Tide City, the true brain of the Northern Frontier.
And so his carriage headed south. He returned to his familiar desk, faced mountains of documents and orders, and began another round of administrative work.
Bradley pushed open the door and entered with a thick ledger in his arms. Bowing slightly, he said, "My lord, this is this year's autumn harvest report."
Louis looked up without speaking and motioned for him to continue.
"We had another bumper harvest this year," Bradley said, opening the first page. "Total production was approximately three hundred and forty thousand tonnes. Growth has slowed, but the granaries remain full."
He paused, then sighed softly.
"There are three reasons. Greenhouses and steam-powered storage continue to serve us well, but the returns from new capacity are diminishing. Newly reclaimed land in the border regions suffered cold waves and insect infestations, leaving yields below expectations. And freezing fog caused delays during the final stage of the harvest."
Louis fell silent for a moment, his gaze settling on the Wheatwave Fief on the map, the breadbasket of Red Tide.
"In other words," he said evenly, "this year's growth amounted to little more than stability."
Louis understood, really. There was only so much land. How could they expect the miracle of doubling production every year?
Grain production had reached the combined limits of nature and human effort.
"Yes, my lord." Bradley closed the ledger. "But our reserves remain safely above the threshold. We have met the target of storing three years' worth of grain for the entire Northern