Maryelle’s POV
I glance over my shoulder—the black sedan is still there, trailing us like a shadow that refuses to dissolve. Israfil’s fingers tighten around mine, a quiet anchor of friendship, steady and grounding.
“It’s just my royal fold,” he murmurs, voice low, almost apologetic. “My new shadows. A form of protection detail that feels more like an annoyance than actual security.” His sigh is resigned, but even in resignation I notice there’s a quiet authority, the kind that makes people obey without question.
The driver veers off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as the car swings into a vast open field. The horizon bristles with jets and helicopters, their metallic bodies gleaming beneath the late sun. I’d assumed we were headed to John Wayne Airport, but clearly, that
