Time Remaining: [N/A]
(Status: Operational. Revenue Strategy.)
Location: The Silver River Bridge.
The morning after the bridge opened, the valley sounded different.
For ten years, the sound of the Silver River crossing had been a specific, miserable cacophony: the cracking of whips, the terrified lowing of oxen chest-deep in water, and the colorful swearing of drivers stuck in the mud.
Today, the sound was rhythmic.
Rumble-thud. Rumble-thud.
It was the deep, hollow percussion of iron-rimmed wheels rolling over oak planks.
It was the sound of money moving.
Arthur stood at the midpoint of the span, leaning over the new railing. He held a wrench in one hand and a notebook in the other.
He wasn't admiring the view. He was counting axles.
A heavy timber wagon from the Deep Woods rolled past him. Four axles. Heavy load.
Behind it, a Trade Federation caravan with six wagons.
Behind that, a line of local farmers.
