The absence of her mother gnaws at her stomach, and her sister’s retreated silence does nothing to satisfy the green and dusty-pink overo. Lately she has taken on the habit of glaring, of showing her fangs to every tiny little creature she could find to scare it away or, when she’s in a really bad mood, attempts to blast a squirrel or two with her burning ice. It’s not much, that must be said, and only satisfies her shortly. The holes she burns into the stone are shallow, and on those days she leaves behind eroding puddles in what already is a misty, rainy land.

Today, it is summer, and the moors seem particularly dry. She stalks the borders, but Amarine is in Taiga, auntie Brazen is gone, some new queen rules the land and she can’t be bothered to meet with them (her grandpa whom she vaguely knows is the king in the icy place, has visited then but didn’t seem bothered to come back after that, as far as she knows; if he’s not worried she isn’t going to be either). Life sucks and she half-heartedly contemplates running away and seeking a place that is alive, only she doesn’t know of any.

She kicks another squirrel (which is of course gone before she even moves), and bares her fangs at a crow in the trees. It might as well be her dad, but the creature doesn’t seem interested in her, so she sighs for the hundredth time. Tiny specks of snow encircle her breath, contrasting with the warm summer air of the moorlands, and if she imagines them sizzling it might as well be the heat evaporating them.

Her glittering tail lashes at her hocks in annoyance with herself and with her life, and she slowly continues her walk again. She’ll finish her rounds in Brazen’s honour, but that’s really really it.