The Royal Workshop smelled of oil, ozone, and impending bad decisions.
Jax stood in the center of the room, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked incredibly proud of himself. Beside him, covered by a tarp, was a large, lumpy shape.
"So," Primrose said, crossing her arms. "Grandma wants to go fast. And you said you have a... motorcycle?"
"Technically," Jax corrected, grinning, "it's a Mana-Combustion Two-Wheeled Transport. But 'Motorcycle' is shorter."
Ophelia was vibrating with excitement. She was wearing her new black leather trousers and the crimson wyvern jacket. She looked less like an ancient ancestor and more like a bandit queen.
"Show me," Ophelia commanded. "Does it bite?"
"Only if you touch the exhaust pipe," Jax warned.
He pulled the tarp off.
Primrose gasped.
