Julian sat back into the leather seat of the private jet, the hum of the cabin almost too soft compared to the storm inside his chest.
A private jet—something he had only read about, never touched.
The leather smelled faintly of cedar and polish, smooth under his fingers. Overhead, hidden vents whispered cool air, and the muffled thrum of the turbines seemed to echo in his bones.
Everything felt too clean, too precise, too unlike the dusty arenas and bloodstained rings of his old world.
"When is the party?" he asked, voice low, his gaze drifting toward Crest.
"After we arrive," she answered without hesitation, hands folded neatly on her lap. "We'll go straight to the hotel. The gathering begins at seven sharp."
Her tone carried no room for delay, no chance for excuses.
Julian tried to steady himself, but tension crawled through his body. The jet's engines roared alive, deep and powerful, vibrating through his bones. His hand drifted to the window.
