There wasn’t a world in which Kvitrafn would allow Roskva’s sweet little teeth to be cast to the side and buried like the entrails of rotting meat—like trash. No. Never. They weren’t trash; they were glorious little artifacts that made up who Roskva, her Viking sister, was. And Kvitrafn wanted them all.

What exactly would she use them for? She wasn’t sure, but something inside her told her that the why and what weren’t important. The only thing that mattered was getting her little paws all over them and collecting them like jewels lost to time.

The second whack had somehow been harder. A more intentional thwack that left Kvit’s teeth chattering within her skull, digging deeper into her gums with a painful pinch she hadn’t expected. She yelped at the sudden impact, dropping the stick for a singular moment, as her own tongue investigated one of her tiny molars within her mouth.

It wiggled.

That was weird.

Perhaps the stick had changed its mind on whose teeth it desired.

But Kvitrafn didn’t want to lose her teeth.

And so she mumbled to herself—to her teeth—a little threat: Stay in there, you tiny bones. Or else.

And once she was satisfied with her warning, certain that her own fangs would remain where they were, she turned her attention back toward her sister—who had now lost another tooth.

But where it had gone, Kvitrafn didn’t know.

An amethyst stare swept the stone corridors of their den, searching through the dark for any bloody remnant of the tiny enamel. But when she found nothing, Kvitrafn shrugged, ignoring the tiny voice inside her mind that seethed and sobbed at the apparent loss.

I dunno, she said with a shrug, ‘prolly not.

She reached for her stick again. We should try again, she mumbled with her mouth full.

Wready?

This time, Kvitrafn hoped that one wiggling molar would stay within her mouth, just as she had demanded it to.