The morning sun crested the jagged granite spines of the Shadowfall Domain, splashing a sharp, golden brilliance across the vast marble floor of the Envoy Citadel’s central receiving hall.
Three weeks remained until the continental summit convened in Grandos, and the administrative machinery of the Neutral Alliance hummed with relentless precision. I sat at my grand ebony desk, reviewing the final security integration treaties drafted for our incoming foreign delegations. Every article had been scrubbed of ambiguous language, ensuring that our sovereignty, trade protections, and child-welfare mandates stood as immutable international law.
Lord Malakor approached quietly, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug. He carried a silver tray bearing a sealed courier capsule stamped with
