𝑾𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑺 ━━ 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

28 New World Order

The sleek, modern buildings of the United Nations complex stood tall against the bustling city skyline. Delegates, dignitaries, and ambassadors gathered in the grand conference hall, a sea of tailored suits and national emblems, as the world's focus turned to the Sokovia Accords. Cameras flashed, reporters whispered into microphones, and the hum of politics filled the air.

Alora Stark moved through the room with practiced poise, her presence commanding yet approachable. Her alabaster skin bore a soft glow under the lights, her delicate features framed by loose waves of honey-blonde hair. She wore a tailored ivory pantsuit that accentuated her tall, lithe frame, and her piercing grey eyes—soft yet intelligent—seemed to take in everything at once. Alora's movements were graceful, almost ethereal as if she carried with her a touch of the divine ancestry that coursed through her veins, she gracefully greeted representatives and signed documents, her Stark Industries badge glinting under the light.

Beside her, Natasha Romanoff walked with a more deliberate stride, sharp eyes scanning the room. In contrast to Alora's luminous demeanor, Natasha's quiet intensity lent her an air of authority.

"You're blending in nicely," Natasha quipped, glancing at Alora's immaculate ensemble.

Alora smirked, her full lips curving faintly. "Not quite my crowd, but I'm used to adapting." Her voice was light yet confident, carrying a warmth that belied the storm within.

Natasha chuckled softly. "It's a room full of egos. You're doing better than most." She gestured toward the stage. "T'Challa and his father, though—they're the real deal. Wakanda doesn't waste words or time."

Natasha nodded, her expression softening. "They're good people."

A staffer approached Natasha. "Excuse me, Miss Romanoff? These need your signature."

"Thanks." Natasha took the papers, her eyes momentarily meeting Prince T'Challa's, poised and statuesque in a sharply tailored suit, as he stood near the glass wall. 

His presence seemed almost incongruous in this setting, and the delegates regarded them with subtle skepticism. To the world, Wakanda was a poor African nation—small, and inconsequential in the grand scheme of geopolitics. Yet there was an unmistakable dignity in their bearing, a quiet strength hinting at unseen depths.

As Natasha signed the documents, T'Challa approached. "Miss Romanoff. Miss Stark."

"T'Challa," Natasha greeted him warmly.

Alora inclined her head. "Prince T'Challa. Congratulations on the progress with the Accords. This is a big step."

He smiled politely. "Thank you, Miss Stark. Your work—both here and through your foundation—is well-known. Wakanda respects those who uplift others."

Alora's smile deepened. "Coming from Wakanda, that means a great deal."

Before more could be said, King T'Chaka joined them. "Son. Ladies."

"Your Majesty," Natasha and Alora greeted in unison.

"Miss Romanoff, Miss Stark," T'Chaka said, his tone warm yet commanding. "Thank you for your presence here today. This initiative benefits greatly from voices like yours."

"It's an honor to be part of this," Alora said sincerely.

The announcement called everyone to take their seats, and Alora touched Natasha's arm lightly. "Let's sit together," she suggested, her voice low. "You can keep me grounded."