The Traveler's Mark

Preface

My breath catches in my throat. No. No. NO.

I study her, study every little detail. That's the face of a killer. The face of the woman who murdered my father. Well, maybe she didn't do it HERSELF, but it was quite evident that she was the one who had given the order.

She had wanted him dead, simply for being the descendant of a Traveler.

I still do not understand the meaning of the word, the importance of the title. All that I know is from what Father had told me, when I was a child.

Every night, he would come home from the mercantile, smelling of smoke and clove, and he would smile warmly at me before calling out to Mother, announcing his presence to her. And then he would scoop me up in his arms and take me over to his chair, a big armchair next to the fireplace. The fire was almost always going, even during the heat of summer.

Every night, he would ask me how my day was before asking me if I wanted to hear a story. Of course the answer was always 'yes,' and I only ever had one request: the story of the Travelers.

I had never realized how much of that story had held truth, how much it hit home for Father and I.

And now it was too late.

Because the woman in front of me had already killed Father. And she wouldn't stop anytime soon.

She wouldn't stop until I too was dead.