I don't notice much but the strapping young man as Lance lifts off the pillars and sidesteps through shadows. Unlike me, he grew up within the distinguished courts and Templar corridors, and so he knows his way—even in the dead of night. His youth and virility ripple through me like the corded muscles of his I feel under my hands. My whole body is strapped to his. His big rancher hands are on the underside of my thighs, and he holds firm. The body I'm feeling doesn't seem like it belongs on the body of a twenty year old, but a wild wolf, hardened by months of surviving harshest winters and coldest winds.
Lance is my lupine soldier. If he were a god, he'd be Apollo.