Morning’s Daughter


“That was a good start,” Sorcha remarked.

“What do you mean, ‘good start’? We only caught two Runners.” Alasdair wished he’d taken something warm with him. The chase was over and he was beginning to feel the cold air again.

“Exactly! Barton said there were only about two or three out at any time. Two’s better than none, right?”

Suddenly, Conall’s ears twitched and he bounded away down the street, Lyall close behind him. Alasdair and Sorcha followed their wolves until they reached the main square of Redcross. Alasdair remembered going through there at least twice the previous night. He yawned, blinking sleep out of his eyes – and stopped, staring ahead of him.

There was a girl in the square. She wore a pale pink dress that reached just below her knees and left her arms bare. Her blonde hair was loose and brushed past her shoulders; it glimmered gold in the morning light. She had her back to the Wolf-Lords, but Conall and Lyall stood right in front of her.

Conall stepped up to her. She kept perfectly still as he sniffed her right hand. Lyall padded away, back to where Sorcha was waiting.

Alasdair walked towards her, his feet making no sound. “Hello.”

Conall spotted him and trotted past the girl. Just as he reached Alasdair’s side, the girl looked over her shoulder and Alasdair felt his world tremble.

Her eyes were the same shade as the sky above them: a clear, beautiful blue.

She looked as if she had been born of the morning itself.

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