The door of the Jet hissed open, and the warmth of the cabin was instantly devoured by the brutal, predatory bite of the Canadian north.
The air felt cold and heavy, carrying the scent of ancient pine and the crushing pressure of the Royal aura waiting for us down below.
I stepped out behind Romani, my breath hitching as the sub-zero wind whipped my hair across my face. Below, the scene was orchestrated with the terrifying precision of a military funeral. A line of black armored sedans stood idling, their exhaust plumes curling into the dark sky like ghosts. Dozens of guards in charcoal-grey uniforms stood at a rigid salute, but my eyes were locked on the two figures at the center of the formation.
King Alaric and Queen Genevieve.
They didn’t move. They didn’t smile.
They simply exist
