The hall was silent save for the echo of deliberate footsteps and the soft rustle of silk and wool.
At the heart of the room stood a long ceremonial table—black lacquer on one end, polished mahogany on the other. A visual symbol of the meeting: East and West, Nagasaki and Volkov. Two empires cloaked in power and secrecy, now converging in a rare, high-stakes gathering.
Wynter resisted the urge to fidget with her sleeves. She was already painfully aware of how out of place she felt in the sea of practiced composure and generational power. Still, standing beside Keith helped. His quiet presence grounded her—a steady calm beneath layers of rigid formality.
