The soft hum of jet engines fades into silence as the sleek private jet descends through the clouds, revealing the glimmering green spires of the Elven Kingdom. Sunlight glints off flowering rooftops and winding ivory pathways that twist through canopies of trees thicker than most cities have buildings. Everything looks impossibly pristine, like a dream drawn in watercolor.
Vaela lounges back in a velvet seat, sunglasses on, one heel propped on Lucien's knee. Lilith practically vibrates beside her, forehead pressed against the jet window.
"I swear," Lilith purrs, "if the king is even half as hot as his propaganda posters, I'm going to need a leash and a fan."
Lucien chuckles. "Try to behave."
"No promises," she sings back.
Vaela removes her sunglasses and shoots them both a look. "We're here to make an impression. An official one. Do not to traumatize any diplomats."
Lucien deadpans. "That warning feels pointed."
Lilith winks. "Because it is."
