Two jets sat on the private tarmac at Paradise International, noses pointed in the same direction, fuselages gleaming under the afternoon sun that bounced off white paint and polished chrome until the whole runway shimmered like a mirage.
The Price family jet was already running. Engines cycling, stairs deployed, cabin pressurised and waiting. Staff had loaded the luggage an hour ago.
Everything was ready because — the machinery of departure had been set in motion long before the family arrived, because Fenris Silverblood did not wait for runways.
Thirty metres to the right, the Heavenchild jet sat in identical readiness. Larger. Sleeker. Because of course it was the Earth's most powerful family's jet.
Abigail Price stood at the base of the jet stairs.
