The Cursed Heir

Chapter One

Cassie was used to being a cursed outcast, a criminal. She had even resigned herself to being a runaway. What she had not yet resigned herself to being was a victim.

Which was why the dirty sword an inch from her nose was so concerning. And the filthy, craggy-faced man holding it even more so.

"You don't belong here," he said in a voice that had never met a pleasant note.

Cassie dared to suck in a breath and instantly regretted it—the smell was worse than the sight, hints of old meals and filth of the forest that relied on the occasional rainstorm to rinse off.

It had been a very dry summer.

The man pursed cracked lips and whistled three times. A signal? Whoever he was, he was unlikely to be alone. Cassie chanced a step back, fingers brushing the knife she had just sheathed.

"Uh-uh," the man chastised her, knife lowering to point at her neck. "You stay put."

"A trespasser already, Maskire?" another man asked, voice full of command. "Your hunting forays are getting more successful."

He stepped into view to Cassie's right, so smoothly she almost thought he materialized from the mist clinging to the green leaves. One moment there was nothing but two trees, branches brushing each other, and the next there was a man, stepping between them without disturbing a single twig, his clothes stained so many shades of green and brown there was no distinguishing it from the surrounding greenery, much less telling what their original color might have been.

If she tried to escape, there would be no telling how close her pursuers were getting, if they managed to move that silently through the forest.

Cassie did not like those odds.

Nor did she like the consideration in the second man's gaze. He might have been handsome if it weren't for the grime—or the cold calculation directed at her.

What did they want? And what would it take for Cassie to get rid of them? Was it worth trying to attack, or would that only put her in more danger? Avery would caution patience, tell her to assess her opponent before she did anything rash.

Avery had never faced anything more real than a quintain.

"She alone?" the second bandit—for they must be bandits, these filthy forest men who thought to accost her—asked.

"Looks like," Maskire answered. "Should be easy."

Easy to do what? Cassie's unease ratcheted securely into fear.

"Which begs the question," the second man mused, "what is she doing out here?"

"Nothing!" Cassie said quickly. "Just out for—a...a walk."

"A walk," the man repeated flatly. "In my territory."

"Your territory?" Last time Cassie had checked, Esre's woods belonged to the king. That this dirty creature thought he could lay claim to part of it—only self-preservation kept Cassie's annoyance silent.

His stare sharpened as though he had heard the thought, nevertheless. "Either you're freshly banished, or a noble too rich to know better," he said. "Either way, you seem in need of a lesson."

Cassie's knees began to shake, the trembling of her skirt giving her away.

"You want to whistle for Nicolas?" he asked Maskire, never taking his eyes from Cassie.

In answer, he spat on the ground. "This is my catch," he snapped. "It's my turn for some fun."

Maskire's response had pleased the one in charge, it seemed. "All yours," he said, crossing his arms and stepping back.