The arrival in Alamina was less spectacular - less theatrical - than Dean had expected.
The imperial convoy was there, of course. The press, too, clustered behind barriers with their lenses pointed like hungry eyes. But there wasn't the Palatine kind of performative chaos; no screaming crowd pushed close enough to breathe on you for 'tradition.'
There was simply… order. A literal wall of uniformed security surrounded the perimeter, making it clear that Dean's discomfort would be treated as a legitimate issue rather than a cost of admission.
Dean stepped down the jet's stairs, and the cold air hit his lungs cleanly.
He realized he'd barely slept during the last hours of the flight. His mind had run in tight circles around one thought until it turned into something sick.
'My grandfather tried to sell me.'
