Camp was quiet. Many slept, it seemed — as she'd hoped. Distant voices called others to heel. The Cur grew bolder in her invasion, then, watching for guards, and slinking through oppressive fog when she was sure none walked near. The grass was cold and dewy on her feet, and behind her the scent of mountain wolves stuck to beaded blades.

Incense led her nose toward their stores, and she sank her belly to the ground beside a bower where some caravaner snored faintly, to watch whether any paid special attention to the collection of fur-bundled trinkets. It would not be entirely unguarded under such grim auspice as the bleeding moon, would it? Or did this band believe itself impenetrable, and forego an inner watchman?