The tiniest pressure at my waist makes me spin, acting on instinct. I grab the hand foolish enough to pickpocket me, squeezing tight so the little imp won’t be able to run away. But instead of a scrawny kid, I find myself staring up at a smirking face.
Kilorn Warren. A fisherman’s apprentice, a war orphan, and probably my onlyreal friend. We used to beat each other up as children, but now that we’re older - and he’s a foot taller than me - I try to avoid scuffles. He has his uses, I suppose. Reaching high shelves, for example.