The young Cathar tightened her eyes against the mid-day sun, watching the market stall ten feet away. She was kneeling beneath a disused stall with a ragged torn sheet obscuring her from view. Across the street a grey-furred Cathar male haggled with customers as they passed, trying to sell his wears.

She could smell them from her hiding spot: sweet sticky fruits, rich golden nuts and jar after jar of marmalades that lined the merchant's table. It was intoxicating. Her mouth watered but she remained where she was, her wide golden eyes never leaving the stall.

Time lost meaning and still she knelt there, patient and determined. Eventually, as the sun began to set and the sky turned a dusky orange, the merchant left his stall.

Her eyes widened with opportunity. Not wasting any time, she held out her hand and focussed. A moment later three large nuts flew from the stall to her hiding place. She caught them with ease, swallowing each one whole. With the taste of the food on her tongue, she focussed again. This time a large yellow fruit flew from the stall, landing firmly in her hand. She giggled in triumph, tearing through the outer skin with her claws and biting down on the fruit's soft flesh, juices filling her mouth with a sweetness she hadn't tasted in weeks.

By the time she had finished the fur around her mouth and hands was matted and sticky. She started licking the fingers of her left hand clean, raising her right hand and eyeing a jar of purple marmalade for the next course. The jar lifted free of the stall and flew across the street. Then, mere inches from her grasp, a grey hand shot into view and snatched the jar from the air.

"No!" she yelped, scrambling backwards. The merchant's face glared at her in response from behind the tattered sheet.

"Come 'ere, you!" he growled, grabbing the young Cathar's leg and pulling her out into the street. She dug her claws into the dry dirt but it did no good. The merchant towered over her, large and intimidating. The young Cathar scrambled to her feet and tried to run. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, pulling her close to his scarred, ragged face. Passers-by looked on, but didn't interfere.

"I don't know how you did that you thieving little Kit, but you're payin' for it!" His voice was menacing and full of gravel. She cowered beneath his glare, her white fur matted and dirty, embarrassed and ashamed.

But he didn't care, and she knew it. She had watched his type from the shadows for months as they negotiated with customers and sold their goods, raking in credits while leaving the homeless to starve. All he wanted from her was payment, payment he knew she couldn't provide. So she struggled to break free of his grasp, kicking and screaming and scratching. He chuckled at her attempts, tightening his grip, sending a shooting pain up her arm.

"I trust this will cover it?" a calm voice asked from behind the merchant. The grey Cathar spun around, loosening his grip on his prisoner. Whatever the stranger offered the merchant quickly accepted, releasing the girl's arm and striding back to his stall as if nothing had happened.

She looked up at the stranger, wary of his intentions. He wasn't Cathar – his skin was pinkish with only a small amount of fur around his mouth – and he was dressed in a long brown cloak that touched the ground. A hood covered much of his head and his stance was sturdy but relaxed. His light-brown eyes were fixed on her, his mouth soft and smiling.

"Hello, young one." He knelt down, addressing the girl at her height. "My name's Jarwro. May I ask your's?"

She shuffled uncertainly for a moment before responding quietly. "Myriall..."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Myriall." Jarwro looked over his shoulder before continuing. "You have quite a gift, and this is no way for a child to live. Come," he stood up and held out a hand, "we're getting you out of here."

Myriall looked around the street. Merchants were packing up shop for the night while a few remaining shoppers browsed what was left of the day's sales. The sun had nearly set, the sky turned from dusk-orange to cool-purple.

She took her saviour's hand.