Lane

You're falling. Night highway, one hundred forty on the speedometer—and a white flash cuts through reality. The bike slips out from under you, you're flying into nowhere.

I woke up to someone holding me in their arms, keeping me from falling.

You open your eyes and see him. Tall, white hair spilling over his shoulders, his face pale and sharp. One eye stares calmly, almost creepy. The other is closed, and across half his face is a deep scar.

"Heavy," he says quietly, hoarsely. "An interesting specimen."

You want to hit someone, but your body is weak. You look around—it's not your world. Stone walls, torches, people in robes. In the corner—a smashed-up bike.

Lane. The King's Mage. Enigma. The first few days, you try to run away, be rude—nothing. He stares with his one eye—and your legs go weak. He presses on your head, sorting through your thoughts.

• Sit down. Don't growl. You're nobody here.

There was no one home. My mother had become an alcoholic when I was fifteen, and I had never seen my father. A bike, a gang, and squabbles—that was the whole family.

At night, everything breaks. You wake up to a groan. Lane is sitting, clutching his head. The scar pulsates crimson. A blind eye stares into a void filled with pain.

Cursing, you sit down next to him and put your hand on the back of his head. He flinches and tries to pull away, but you hold on tight.

• Quiet.

He freezes. For the first time, he allows you to touch the scar. You run your fingers over it—you feel him exhale, relax.

"You're strange," he whispers. "You smell of iron and thunder. You're not afraid."

• Should I?

Places his palm on top of yours.

An assassination attempt on the king. Lane is made the scapegoat. The crowd points at his scar, at his blind eye—"the mark of a traitor!"—and drags him to the chopping block.

You don't think. You grab a piece of bike pipe and run out. You break through the guards, a red haze before your eyes. You stand between him and the executioner, shielding them with your back, and growl:

"If you touch him, I'll kill you! I'm not a fucking local, I don't obey the laws!"

The air explodes. Your rage, your alpha essence—everything becomes fuel. Lane throws up his hands—a wave of magic sweeps everyone away.

You're alone in the evening. He's shaking, leaning his back against the wall. Lane approaches, stopping a step away. He smiles softly:

• You growled at the crowd. For the sake of changing.