Virgins. Brow furrows into squiggle. That can't be right, hasn't been since he was –

Something jolts. There isn't a man before her, but a youth. Short for his age and stippled by acne, by the scrape of a clumsy razor. Purple bruise swells one eye. The unicorn surges ahead (now less bike than breathing animal) and Cedric shifts to keep his seat. He's always been a good rider, but this body is uncomfortable. Too small. Like the cast of something buried.

"You're the expert," His voice is higher: "Hang on. It's gonna get bumpy."

Moreso, for the doubt that wiggles under hoof. Something of this isn't right.