The administrative hall smelled of dried parchment and beeswax as Marrick stamped the final export receipts.
"Quill ready, Marrick?"
"Ready and inked, my lord!"
The young scribe stacked three bundles of certified shipping invoices, rubbing his tired eyes with a weary sigh.
"If the imperial customs tax auditor rejects this invoice formatting," Marrick muttered, brandishing his brass stamp like a weapon.
"What will you do?"
"I will personally travel to the capital and force him to eat these three pounds of vellum without water!"
Hajin smiled from his desk, setting aside a newly drafted supply request for the mountain road crews.
"Our invoices are stamped with sovereign regional seals, so the imperial auditor will accept every single ounce," he reassured his scribe. "Bureaucrats love orderly paperwork far more than they love arguing with territorial governors who command private armies."
"You underestimate southern spite, my lord!"
"Do I?"
