Three days later.
Dawn breaks cold and sharp over the mountains.
I stand beside my bike—a matte black Harley Road King, heavy and powerful beneath my hands—and watch the sun bleed gold across the peaks. The air tastes like pine and frost and gasoline. My breath mists in the early light.
Shianne checks my gear for the third time; her movements are precise and methodical. Helmet. Leathers. Gloves. Boots. She's all business this morning, her grief locked down tight behind a warrior's mask.
"You follow every instruction I give," she says, her voice low and firm. "No improvising. No shortcuts. This isn't a joyride, Laney. This is your initiation. You fail; you don't get the crown."
"Understood."
She meets my eye, searching for something. Fear, maybe. Hesitation.
She won't find it.
Rose
