Ragged breaths fell from his tapered muzzle as the half-breed sauntered his way along the edge of the water. His sharp golden gaze trailed the lapping waves, licking at his ankles and sending shivers down his frame. Gluska could not say that he had been fond of the sea, but he could not speak for the opposite, either. He was ever the indifferent creature, and the coywolf’s opinion changed with the seasons. And, as of late, it had been quite cold. The winds brought whispers of winter on their breath, telling Gluska that it would not be long before those lands were shrouded in snow.

The coywolf’s steps came to a halt as he caught sight of the billowing mass of cinereal clouds overhead. He quickly drew his tongue across dark leathery lips and frowned. Ochre-tipped ears swiveled violently atop his skull as a row of waves beat heavily against the shore. Gluska cast his sharp yellow gaze over his shoulder, whiskers twitching.

No, the coywolf had never been fond of the sea. The fur along his spine prickled for only a moment before he flicked the tip of his tail and set off at a steady lope along the foaming fringe of oceanic water and drenched sands.