The descent was smooth—too smooth.
Lucas barely felt the wheels touch down, the plane gliding across the tarmac like it hadn't traveled hundreds of kilometers in a matter of hours. The clouds outside had thinned into sunset, the skyline already bleeding gold into violet—too poetic to be accidental.
He sat back in his seat, composed, hands folded neatly in his lap. The rest of the cabin stirred with efficient movement. A steward passed by with a wordless nod. One of Trevor's aides murmured confirmation into an earpiece. Windstone was already standing.
Of course he was.
"Convoy is in position," he said crisply. "Route to the palace has been cleared. Local wards refreshed twice. Sahan guard rotation reviewed and duplicated. Trevor, your security has accepted our override."
Trevor glanced up from his tablet, calm as ever. "Expected."
Lucas said nothing but noted the phrasing.
Not requested. Not negotiated.
Overridden.
