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KYRA

K yra pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the airplane window, watching as the landscape below transformed from the azure blue of the Mediterranean to the rugged, mountainous terrain of western Iran. Patches of green dotted the otherwise arid landscape, villages and small cities clustered in the vast expanse.

Her pendant felt warm and alive against her skin, a near-constant sensation since they'd crossed into Iranian airspace. Was it warning her of danger she was unaware of? After two decades of relying on its guidance she'd learned to interpret its subtle communications, but this steady warmth was new.

"Excited to be back?" Yamanu asked, glancing out the window.

"Yes." She cast him a smile. "I'm excited to see my sisters."

Her only memory of Tehran was of the asylum and her escape from it, but those memories were vague. She'd been so heavily drugged back then that she had a hard time forming coherent memories. Still, the fragmented visual clips stored in her mind were enough to guess what had been done to her, and she was grateful for not remembering more.

Jasmine had said something about the Clan Mother's ability to retrieve her memories, but unless the goddess could do so selectively and retrieve only the memories before the asylum, Kyra preferred not to remember anything rather than remembering that dark time. If she was unable to process those memories, they might break her, and she needed to be as whole as she could be for her family.

Yamanu nodded, his pale eyes showing a depth of understanding. "Home soil has a way of stirring things up, even when the memories aren't always welcome."

The Guardian somehow grasped the strange duality of returning to a place that should feel like home but instead felt like enemy territory. Had he been through something similar?

She wanted to ask, but that type of conversation required privacy.

Instead, her mind drifted to the cover story Onegus had supplied them with.

"You'll be traveling as the Al-Nouri family," the chief had explained, distributing passports and identification papers. "A wealthy merchant from Tabriz, his wife, his brother and sister-in-law, plus bodyguards and servants. The documentation should pass scrutiny, with or without Yamanu's shrouding."

The forged documents were impeccable and indistinguishable from legitimate government-issued IDs. The clan's resources were impressive.

"We'll start our descent in about half an hour," the pilot announced.

Max pushed to his feet. "We should change into our disguises."

Around the cabin, team members began pulling duffel bags from overhead compartments and extracting folded garments.

Max handed Kyra her bag—the one Eva had prepared with the specially modified traditional clothing and fat suit.

Jade and the two pureblooded Kra-ell females, Rishba and Asuka, withdrew similar garments from their bags, as did the men, pulling out long caftans and small, simple turbans.

"Eva's been busy," Kyra remarked, running her hand over the fabric of the abaya.

Yamanu's lips quirked into a small smile. "These aren't from Eva. Jade and one of the Guardians went shopping for the rest of the stuff. Only yours has the special modifications."

Jade nodded from across the aisle, where she was already unfolding a plain black abaya. "Standard stuff is easy enough to find," she said.

Kyra lifted the fat suit and examined the various straps. "I can't put it on out here. I'm going to the bathroom."

"Need help?" Max asked, his lips quirking up in a suggestive smile.

"I think I can manage," Kyra said dryly but returned his smile.

His consistent good humor was both ridiculous and endearing. It was also enviable, and she wondered if she could learn to be more like Max. It seemed like a more fun way to live, even if it was sometimes forced.

Kyra knew better than most what it was like to fake it until you made it. Except, in her case, it was pretending to be brave when she'd been scared, and confident when she'd been anything but.

The airplane's bathroom was cramped, barely large enough for Kyra alone, let alone with the bulky garments. She maneuvered awkwardly, shedding her tactical jacket and pants, and wondered whether she should put the fat suit over her T-shirt or her bare skin.

Eva had warned that it would be hot in the suit, and the T-shirt might add to that, but on the other hand, it would absorb sweat, so it was hard to decide.

The suit was an engineering marvel, with inner slots sized perfectly for knives along the ribs, a larger pocket across the belly that could hold a handgun, and even thin channels running down the thighs where smaller weapons could be concealed.

As she strapped herself into the contraption, Kyra admired Eva's ingenuity. The padding distributed the weight evenly, making the arsenal she was now carrying surprisingly comfortable. There were even small hooks to hang ammunition pouches. The problem would be accessing her arsenal. The disguise was effective for smuggling weapons but not for actual combat.

Once the suit was secured, Kyra draped the abaya over her body and added the niqab to cover her head and face. The black fabric fell from her head to her feet, concealing not just her padded figure but every aspect of her identity. There was a slit for her eyes, and they were distinctive, but she could wear sunglasses to conceal their unique color.

For a moment, she stood still, confronting her reflection in the small mirror. The woman—if one could even tell it was a woman—staring back at her was a featureless black shape devoid of identity, of humanity. The sight stirred something uncomfortable in her.

She felt erased.

Over the years with the Kurdish resistance, Kyra had seen the traditional clothing used as both a tool of oppression and, paradoxically, of freedom. For some women it was forced upon them, a physical manifestation of their society's determination to render them invisible. For others, particularly female resistance fighters, it provided anonymity, a way to move undetected through hostile territory.

Kyra had never worn one herself, preferring the moderate hijab that allowed her greater mobility during operations. Standing here now, completely encased in black, she forced herself to focus on the benefits of anonymity and invisibility rather than the erasure of her personhood.

How could this modern era be the worst time in human history for women in these parts of the world?

How had humanity allowed that to happen?

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, the cabin had transformed. Instead of two Guardians and five Kra-ell warriors, she was greeted by three females in traditional garb, two rich-looking Iranian males in caftans and elaborate turbans, and two in simpler clothing but still in caftans and turbans.

Max had undergone the greater transformation, with his eyebrows and hair darkened with what she assumed was hair powder, and a fake beard to complete the look. He still looked too European, but many Iranians had some Russian heritage, so it wasn't unusual to see lighter-skinned people like him.

Max walked up to her, the disguise doing nothing to diminish his swagger. If anything, it was more pronounced than usual because he was leaning into the role he was playing.

The problem was that he didn't know that, given her background, it rubbed Kyra the wrong way. She didn't say anything, because he was nothing like those males who used their masculinity to intimidate women instead of offering safety and protection.

"Must be stifling in there." He reached for her hand, the only part of her other than her eyes that was exposed.

"It is, in more ways than one," Kyra admitted. "I try to think of this as my invisibility cloak, but I can't ignore the fact that while I can take it off, others can't. My heart bleeds for them."

"They should rebel," Jade said. "No one should live like that." She tugged at her head covering. "This is not nearly as bad as yours, but I hate it with a vengeance. A warrior's hair shouldn't be covered." She turned to the other four Kra-ell, who all had long hair gathered either in a ponytail or a braid, including the males. "Am I right?"

"It's an affront to the Mother of All Life," Dima said. "But at least we don't have to cover our faces. It's disgraceful for a warrior to kill an enemy with a concealed face."

Kyra found it fascinating how different cultures had different traditions that stood in direct opposition to one another, but there was something to what Dima had said about killing with a covered face like an assassin. She'd done it, and it had never sat well with her.

Max squeezed her hand. "You are still beautiful to me, even with the fat suit on."

"How would you know?" She pulled her hand out of his. "I'm covered from head to toe. "

Max tapped his temple with one finger, a lopsided smile playing across his lips. "I see you in here, and you are perfect."

"How about me?" Anton strutted down the aisle, exaggerating the swish of his caftan and striking ridiculous poses. "Am I beautiful?"

"Dashing," Kyra said. "Absolutely dashing."

Not to be outdone, Dima followed his friend's example. "How about me? Am I dashing as well?"

"Very much so," Kyra said.

"The hair covering sucks, but I love the dress." Anton spun in a circle, making his garment billow out around him. "I've never felt so free. The ventilation is refreshing."

Yamanu adjusted his fancy turban and struck a pose. "I'm ready for my big break in the next Aladdin remake."

"Only if they're casting for the comic relief sidekick," Jade said in her usual dry voice, though there was a hint of amusement in her usually impassive features.

Max arched a brow. "And how would the fearless Kra-ell leader know about comic relief and sidekicks in movies?"

She looked at him down her nose. "I've seen every Disney movie ever made. I used to get them for the kids in my compound, and after Igor enslaved me along with all the other females of my tribe, I convinced him to continue purchasing the movies for the kids so they could learn English. "

Kyra's gut twisted. "You were enslaved?"

She couldn't imagine the proud warrior being anyone's slave.

Jade nodded. "It's a long story, and one day, I will tell you about it over a bottle of vodka. But not today. Today, I need to erase it from my mind so I can do what needs to be done."

Kyra understood that better than most.

"I don't understand why women accept these," Rishba said, fingering the edge of her own head covering. "To be erased like this, made into a ghost."

"Not everyone is a rebel and a warrior." Kyra reached out to adjust the female's niqab. "For most, it's what they know and what their families expect. They don't have a choice, even if they hate it. Resistance will get them beaten and sometimes even executed. Sometimes, it's just easier to accept the dogma and believe that they are following divine commands and will go to hell if they don't obey."

Jade adjusted her own garment the way Kyra had demonstrated on Rishba. "It serves our purpose today. No one will suspect that beneath these symbols of female oppression are warriors capable of eliminating them with their bare fangs."

"Please take your seats," the pilot announced over the intercom. "We're starting our descent."

Kyra sat down and watched Tehran coming into view through the window—a sprawling metropolis nestled against the Alborz Mountains.

Somewhere in the vast city were the missing pieces of her past, her sisters, nieces, and nephews that had been stolen from her. But lurking out there were also the Doomers who sought to enslave her family, even though the fake doctor was no longer issuing orders.

There might be others who knew about her family's godly genes and were planning to exploit them.