The chuff had earned Trygve a lengthy glare as the girl sized him up without any attempts at subtlety— head cocked, tail giving sharp flicks behind her. He was only a child, same as her, but he was different. The mottled coat promised as much, looking like beasts of dark and light fought over his fur and decided to split him precisely down the middle. Even his eyes carried this great contradiction. Something about that immediately irritates the girl— and intrigues her.

Surely this boy is some father’s rare, prized possession. So what is he doing out here, and all alone?

“Great,” she sneers, lip curling, “is this where all the sad kids end up?” The last thing Yakone could stomach being was a cliche.