The private airfield stood beneath a sky washed pale by afternoon sunlight, and the distant ocean wind carried the scent of salt across endless stretches of concrete and steel. Security personnel moved with unusual urgency near the isolated terminal while black vehicles waited silently beside the runway. Nobody laughed. Nobody lingered. An atmosphere of anticipation hung over the airfield like a gathering storm, and even those who knew nothing of wolves or ancient bloodlines found themselves speaking more quietly than usual.
A sleek jet touched the runway with controlled grace.
Its wheels met the earth.
Its engines roared softly.
Then silence followed.
Several men standing near the terminal straightened instinctively. Some lowered their eyes. Others exchanged nervous glances. They all understood the same truth.
Their King had returned.
The aircraft door opened slowly.
Luca Bianchi released a slow breath.
Victor Salazar folded his hands behind his back.
