The marble architecture of the Continental Summit Hall looms over the Geneva basin, its high glass dome catching pale morning light and scattering it in cool, fractured patterns across the amphitheater floor below. Cold mountain air seeps through even the hall's climate controls, carrying a faint mineral bite that reminds Wren, absurdly, of the archive vault three days and one lifetime ago, old stone holding the same patient chill regardless of continent. Inside the central chamber, hundreds of regional lords, imperial delegates, and pack monarchs sit crowded in tiered marble rows, their hushed whispers rising and falling like water finding new channels through rock. At the center of the polished floor stands a massive round table crafted from dark ironwood, twelve high-backed chairs arranged in careful, ceremonial symmetry around it, one seat conspicuously empty at the head. The heavy oak doors swing open with a deep, echoing thud that silences the whispering gallery in a single
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