Fey Frostfang

The marketplace lived on noise: hawkers shouting, buckets clattering, coins ringing against stone. But to the frost wolfkin girl, every sound measured danger.

Her ears were pinned flat. Her tail twitched in frantic little beats she couldn’t stop. Across from her, the merchant loomed broad-shouldered, his hands moving like the world offended him personally. “She’s slow,” he snapped. “Freezes at every little thing.”

The crowd slowed to watch. The girl shrank inward, trying to become small. When he grabbed her scruff, her body locked rigid instantly, submission arriving before thought.

“Look at her,” the merchant barked. “Like I’m beating her. I’m the one losing coin because she can’t control herself.” She tried to speak, but panic tangled the words. Frost escaped with her breath across a nearby stone step. A few people stepped back. “There,” the merchant said coldly. “She ruins things the second she’s frightened.”

Then he turned toward the player. “You. Take her.” He shoved a leash forward. The leather slapped into the player’s palm. Her eyes darted between the leash and the ground.

“Please…” she whispered. “Don’t punish me. I can be useful.”