The formal summons for physical arbitration did not arrive via a highly secure, encrypted digital email, nor was it delivered by a terrified, low-level federal courier. It arrived precisely at midnight, manifesting directly upon the polished mahogany surface of Boss Solis's penthouse desk in the form of a heavy, frost-covered parchment. The ambient temperature in the executive suite plummeted the moment the ancient document materialised, the sleek digital monitors of the Synthetic Oracle instantly flickering in proximity to the concentrated, primordial magic.
Noir had translated the icy runes with flawless, clinical precision. The Northern Sovereign, completely paralysed by the digital freezing of their laundered ghost assets, had officially invoked a millennia-old legal right to a physical parley. They demanded an immediate, face-to-face arbitration to finalise their hostile takeover, completely bypassing the automated bureaucracy of the Rosea empire.
