Chapter 92: Honeymoon to Saha (1)
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.
The door hissed open with a soft hydraulic sigh. Warm, dry air spilled inside, thick with Saha’s desert-border sharpness and the faint sting of crushed spice on the wind. Even the air here felt designed.
Lucas rose without waiting to be told.
They stepped onto the tarmac into a sunlit world that looked carved from stone and conquest. The landing strip was pristine. The cars were already waiting—sleek, black, and glassed like high-end armor. Soldiers stood at perfect intervals, their uniforms tailored, their rifles ceremonial but loaded.