The sun-kissed boy had heard howls at the border before, from prospective joiners and visitors alike, but never had he heard his name called in a stranger’s voice. His ears convulsed in the mess of his mane, and he closed his book shut with a slow swivel of his head. Had he been hearing things? He frowned, shrugged, turned the page back again to the story. His eyes trailed over the letters with a bit more ease now although he was still hung-up on funny-looking words, but he managed to read and to smile as the talking horses discussed whether or not rolling in the grass was folly for simpler animals.

“But that’s just the point,” groaned Bree. “Do Talking Horses roll? Supposing they don’t? I can’t bear to give it up. What do you think, Hwin?”

“I’m going to roll anyway,” said Hwin. “I don’t suppose any of them will care two lumps of sugar whether you roll or not.”

The howl came again—his name, unmistakable this time. Swallowing, his ears flattening in his blonde hair, Skoll pushed himself up and walked toward the borders of the Kingdom. Was he in trouble with another pack? It had not been long enough since the festival in d’Arte ended and he made his first shift, but surely, they would have caught him if he misbehaved. It wasn’t about that mouse he’d hunted with the pretty dog Bambi, right?

He slunk toward the borders, and his spring-green eyes took in the sight of a large and stern-looking grey wolf. However, the wolf’s hand gripped the reins of a big bay mare, and the preteen gasped. He ran toward the wolf and stared at the horse, noting the white splashed on her lower half, her friendly eyes. She whickered at him in greeting.

“H-hello, I’m Prince Skoll Haskel,” the golden boy said without his usual excitement and confidence.

Stormcloud-grey eyes regarded him for a moment, and then the large male’s face softened with recognition. “So you are,” he stated gruffly. He reached into a pouch at his belt, drawing out a folded piece of paper. “The members of Cercatori d’Arte noticed you around the pack lands, and we wanted to thank you for visiting, Prince Skoll.” He didn’t sound like he was used to saying so much, but he went on anyway. “So… Here’s your gift.”

Skoll stared blankly at the grey wolf, and slowly he looked at the sabino horse. She continued to watch him with gentle curiosity, and with a questioning look, the child stepped closer to her. He let her catch his scent then petted her soft nose, breaking out into a big smile.

“R-really?”

The wolf almost smiled. “Really. Her name was Brownhorse, but I suppose you can call her whatever you want to now.”

He glanced briefly at the book clutched in his hand: The Horse and His Boy. And he grinned. “I call ’er Hwin,” he said, brushing the mare’s dark forelock back then stepping away almost shyly. He blinked when the reins were offered to him, and then the d’Artisan gave him the paper.

“Give this to your parents as soon as you have her stabled. I don’t want Courtiers flooding d’Arte to see if we had a horse stolen. The paper says she’s yours now so there aren’t any mistakes.” He stepped away, glanced back in the direction he’d come from, and nodded. “Take care.”

And he was gone, and Skoll Haskel was staring at his very first horse Hwin, and then he started giggling crazily and it was all he could do to lead her very carefully, step by step, toward the stables. How surprised were Alder and his parents going to be when they saw her!