Cursed: Traitor's Trail

Chapter 1

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CHAPTER 1

Her heavy breathing broke the peaceful quiet that marked the steppes before dawn.

As stealthy as the screech of a demon bird. She softened her breaths, aiming for silence, but lack of air combined with exertion stole her balance and the tent spun and tilted oddly in her distorted vision.

Stupid demon cursed packing.

Aya Du-Mara folded the bundle of mouse furs into a tight roll, a difficult feat in the dark. It didn't help that they measured twice her length, and nearly as long in width. What had made her happy to receive the new furs? They were softer, yes, but they had yet to gain subtlety. They fought against her, mimicking the tenacity of their living counterparts. She should give mice more credit, she decided, they were tougher than they seemed. She climbed on top of the bundle, stretching herself until she nearly covered the whole of it, keeping it in place. There. Now she just had to...

She bit back a groan. The leather bindings—which she needed to secure the skins—sat in a neat pile just out of reach. Maybe, if she went slowly she could stretch far enough. She shifted, extending her arm out while leaving the majority of her body pinning the roll.

The leather mocked her efforts; tantalizingly close yet still beyond her fingertips.

A soft thump jarred her concentration, something outside and in the surrounding silence, it seemed loud, ominous.

It startled her, and she twitched, nearly losing her balance—something she struggled with in her awkward and rather embarrassing position. She steadied herself and rolled her eyes; just another clan member, or the wind tipping something to the ground. Nothing large or frightening or filled with teeth...She hoped. Only her own breathing filled her ears, she tilted her head and stilled, though it strained her arms to hold position.

Nothing burst through the tent's skins to gobble her up. Grunting with effort, she continued on her quest...just a little farther. She pulled forward, the dry dust of the tent floor slipped beneath her hands. Nearly.

The skins beneath her lower half shifted a fraction. No. No. No. Demon spit. Despite clenching her thighs the natural tension of the skins proved too strong.

She scrambled to push her body backward, but it did little good. The skins continued to spread, gaining speed until, at last, they sprung free of their confined state. They settled to the floor with a loud thwap, leaving Aya face down in the dust; her legs tangled beneath the pile.

“What are you doing child?” A tired, unhappy voice asked from the far side of the tent, where Grandmother's pallet of skins lie.

She cringed. Children might make the mistake of waking an elder before dawn with their noise, a grown woman should know better.

“I am sorry Grandmother,” Aya whispered, mortified. Moving camp would be work enough, without incurring Grandmother's wrath. Somehow Grandmother's mood and Aya's assigned chores held a strict relationship. The more displeased the old woman became, the more chores Aya found herself with.

The old woman sighed. Aya imagined her weathered fingers rubbing at her temples, as they often did when she found her last remaining grandchild exasperating.

“You are up before the sun, again. Perhaps there are chores outside you can do?” The gruff statement held a hint of tenderness and amusement.

Aya drew in a breath, relieved to be forgiven. Life with Grandmother required delicate balance. Something she failed at frequently.