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The dying embers of the campfire sizzled as Martin downed the last of his fifth of whiskey, the liquid searing his throat and sinuses. With the close of the workweek, the apprentice surveyor maintained the Arbour Surveying Agency tradition of celebrating at his favored retreat in the hills west of Vernon, the town he had called home for most of his adult life. However, this Friday saw him drinking with no companion, save for that of his old nag Clementine. She proved to be a poor drinking buddy, however, and seemed more content to scrape along the ground and nibble at the grass a safe distance from the fire.

His master, the legendary explorer Ms. Helene Arbour, had not joined him in in this weekly ritual for nearly a year. She was out performing fieldwork in Echo, far to the west, across the Tychean Sea. Ms. Arbour's absence had become familiar, especially since her visiting colleague, Ms. Fadina Afzal, had overseen him and his fellow apprentice Davin Cotteril in her stead. Though nice enough a woman, Afzal chose not to participate in the weekly rituals, a fact that had seemed prudish to the apprentices at first, but she seemed unwilling to indulge them in their weekly indulgence. What Martin found more unusual was that Davin himself had not accompanied him this week. Though they both shared a healthy ambition in the context of their work, they often joked about Davin's comparative laziness: Martin had more than once compared the man to a bear just emerging from hibernation, and not just because of his fellow apprentice's size and build. Because of his lax demeanor, it came as a surprise when Martin finished his work for the afternoon, only to find Davin poring over a letter from Ms. Arbour at the close of business earlier that day. Stranger still was his insistence on finishing his task before joining him, saying something about their master asking him to find some of her field notes and mail them to her.

The near-simultaneous demise of the fire and the whiskey were both strong signs that he had completed the ritual for the week and kept the malevolent spirits of an unproductive future workweek at bay. Martin mustered the presence of mind to tear himself from his slack-jawed stupor of staring at the glowing coals. When he stood, his vision swam from the sudden motion. The vertigo provided proof that he had hit the sweet spot of pleasant inebriation; he resolved to make the most of it by enjoying a tipsy ride home on ol' Clem. He kicked the embers out, unhitched his nag from a low-hanging branch, and, with a moment to steady himself, mounted the old horse. As he set off at a gentle trot, he cleared the patch of forest that had become the customary celebration site. The two moons were out, Pan high in the southern sky and Hermes about halfway cresting the eastern horizon, as if fruitlessly pursuing Pan across the heavens.

Martin followed the winding path down the hill, making a conscious effort to keep his upper body steady as Clem rounded the curves of the trail. By the time the man rode through the main drag of Vernon, he felt relieved that the sweltering afternoon sun had given way to a pleasant evening, complete with a cool breeze characteristic of the arid scrubland of central Sinoe. The man gazed upward again at the strokes of stars brushed across the sky. Were he sober, he might have been able to make out some constellations, but at present he had neither the mental clarity nor the visual acuity to make out any. Instead, as he meandered down the street astride Clem, the young man pondered his future for what felt like the thousandth time. In particular, he wondered whether his master planned to hand over her business to Fadina and retire quietly in the process. It didn't escape the man that the woman was nearing retirement age.

By contrast, Fadina was only a few years his senior, but nevertheless had an illustrious exploration career behind her. Her archaeological exploits from pre-Collapse ruins had yielded artifacts and, apparently, renown from the archaeological community. Martin respected and admired her for the knowledge she had shared with Davin and him about pre-Collapse society, but perhaps the achievement of hers he found the most fascinating was the artifact she seemed to carry on her at all times: an alabaster-and-sterling dagger with a shaggy-maned beast engraved into the hilt, blending form and function into a weapon that commanded respect, particularly for a couple of greenhorns like Davin and Martin.

The man directed Clem to the right, turning away from the lantern-lit main road down an unlit, unpaved, dusty side road to the live-in office he shared with Davin, his thoughts continuing to meander. The two apprentices had developed a reasonably strong rapport with Ms. Afzal over the past ten-or-so months, where she gained a reputation for being fair and level-headed, if a bit absentminded. Nevertheless, he missed the meticulous attention to detail that Arbour instilled and expected, as well as her stoic placidity. As a second-year apprentice, he was almost ready to take his journeyman certification, but his master's absenteeism had the man feeling that he was stuck in a holding pattern. Still, he didn't really have any options: he could either stick it out and continue working basically for free, or to quit and ply a different trade. He loathed to consider the latter option. At least Ms. Afzal was understanding, even if she was nowhere near as well versed in the surveying aspect of their trade as Ms. Arbour.

Though his mind wandered in lazy circles, Martin took the ride slowly enough to where he had begun to sober up a bit by the time he made his way to the combined home office. He rode around back and stabled Clem next to Davin's horse Strider, nearly falling over when he dismounted. The man removed Clem's riding tack for the night and hung it on the hook adjacent to Clem's stall with a suppressed belch. He supposed he was less sober than he anticipated

As Martin approached the rear entrance to the surveyor's office where he and Davin boarded, he noticed that he couldn't see a lantern or even a candle lit from any of the windows. Had Davin turned in early? It was unlike him, especially on a Friday evening, but certainly not outside of the realm of possibility. He hoped that Davin hadn't been working too late and just went straight to bed. However, Martin's brow furrowed when he inserted the key into the deadbolt of the rear office door and felt no resistance upon turning the key. Unlocked.

Did I forget to lock the door on my way out? Martin wondered. He thought back to when he had left for the evening. Ms. Afzal had already finished working for the day, but she had left through the front door. Martin mentally kicked himself and resolved to double check the next time he left the office. At least Davin was probably home, if Strider being in the stable meant anything.

It was darker in the office than it was outside, but Martin knew the layout well enough to navigate it blindfolded. Or so he thought, until he stepped from the rear entryway into the main office and promptly tripped over a large object. Martin fell forward clumsily, landing on his forearms as his shins fell on top of the log-sized object. With a swear, Martin reached toward the object. Cloth, but firm underneath. Like… a person?

“Davin? What the hell?" Martin moved his hands to try and push himself back up, recoiling in shock when his left hand fell in a sticky puddle, causing him to lose his grip and fall flat again. He managed to push himself upright by placing hand, now coated in some viscous fluid, on the object he landed on. Once he scrambled to his feed, he felt his way over to Ms. Arbour's desk, which had temporarily been repurposed as Ms. Afzal's. Thankfully, he narrowly avoided tripping over anything else on the way. The apprentice fumbled in the darkness but eventually found a lantern and a match. He fumbled to light the match for a moment. On the fourth strike, after swearing at it into submission, Martin successfully lit the match, followed by the lantern. He shook the match out and turned around.

He first noticed that his left hand, the hand that held the extinguished match, was covered in drying crimson liquid. His heart lurched. He looked on the ground before him and his worst fears were confirmed. On the floor lied Davin, face down, in a pool of his own blood. “Shit! Oh, shit, oh shit. Davin!" Martin exclaimed, almost hysterical. Hastily setting the lantern at his feet, the frantic apprentice surveyor rolled the large man over with some effort and checked for a pulse. He could only feel his own heartbeat pounding through his entire body. Judging by the slash though his neck and what appeared to be multiple stab wounds on his chest, each soaking blood through his olive green cotton shirt, he could only assume the worst.

“Fuck! Davin. Oh my god!" Martin stood, feeling the world around him shrink. “No, this can't be real," Martin reasoned, but he knew even in his buzzed state that this was far too vivid to be a nightmare. Martin nearly ran his free hand through his hair before remembering blood covered it. Blood. The man wanted to cry, to scream, to hunt down whoever did this to his friend. A hundred emotions tugged him in all directions at once, but he shoved them aside as his adrenaline raced. Who did this to you, Davin? The voice of reason in his mind clamored above the din of all the others. Okay, okay. What does the blood say? He scoured the puddles and stains across the room, searching for clues, but there were unfortunately, not many to be found. Perhaps a streak on the floor by his feet, footprints from Martin's own boots, a smeared hand print through the drying puddle near Davin's neck, and spatter all over the wall to his right, presumably from the murderer slicing the man's throat open. Martin reasoned that whoever did this must have been either very brave or very skilled to have even attempted harming his bear-like friend. Okay, the man thought to himself, trying desperately to stay calm. Why though? Why would they do this? Martin raised the lantern from the floor and looked around. In the corner behind the desk where he had picked up the lantern, where many of his master's books had been shelved, they now lay scattered about the floor, as if they had been pulled off the shelves, inspected hurriedly, and discarded. Whoever did this was looking for something in particular, Martin surmised. Davin would never treat Madame Arbour's journals so harshly. Ms. Afzal wouldn't either, I'm sure. So who could have done this?

Martin paced back and forth in the office. What could Davin have been doing before he was attacked? He had told Martin something about finding field notes from a letter Ms. Arbour had sent him—hence why Martin was drinking alone. The man paused: an epiphany. The letter! Martin stepped over Davin, holding the lantern in front of him and ignoring the fact he was tracking bloody bootprints across the wooden floors of the office. Sure enough, down the short hall, on his coworker's desk he found a document, neatly folded and placed next to the envelope stamped with his master's seal. It was postmarked from New Kenai, a fishing town on Echo's eastern shore, about three weeks prior. The letter likely traveled across eastward across the Tychean Sea to get to Vernon. On the table next to the letter, Martin spied a bloodstain with a thin, straight edge that formed a right angle along the desk. Something rectangular—a book, maybe, or a square rule?—had been on the table and removed after Davin had been attacked. Martin unfolded the letter and began reading it by the flickering light of the lantern. He blinked once, twice, thrice, to get his vision to come into enough focus to make out the letters.

To my protégés, Davin and Martin:

I wish, first of all, to provide my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence. I am perennially grateful for your stalwart maintenance of business affairs despite having an itinerant master, and wish to reiterate that upon my return, which I hope is very soon, I will see to it that your journeyman certifications are processed with minimal delay. However, I find that the assignment for which I was summoned to New Kenai has proved to be much thornier of an endeavor than I had originally anticipated; in fact, I find myself regretting that I had not packed more of my equipment and prior journals when I embarked on this journey. It is for this reason that I am writing you with some urgency—

A rhythmic, muffled thumping in the distance interrupted Martin's reading, and his heart sank. He hoped for a moment that it was just passersby, but the sound only got louder: the driving of hooves. The man's mind strategized, or at least doing the best it could given his slightly inebriated state, in the time it took to shutter the lantern.

The way he saw it, Martin had two options. Option one: he could stay and try to explain himself to the people who were arriving, who could have been the local sheriff's office or who could have been whichever people killed Davin coming back to finish the job. That would mean either fighting for his life or hoping the sheriff would believe him when he said he wasn't around when Davin was murdered. He had somewhat of an alibi, but in the absence of other witnesses, and with his bloody footprints being the only ones on the wood floor, Martin would likely be the prime suspect. Not good. Option two: he could take his chances on the road. Leave Vernon, escape the situation, and go meet up with his mentor, who might be able to clear his name.

In the moment, still feeling the effects of the whiskey, he felt he had only one option. He grabbed his travel pack from his and Davin's room, which was thankfully already still packed from the last time he needed it for work a few weeks prior, slipped the folded letter into the envelope and in his pack, and opened the window. He climbed out into the moonlit night, only to lose his balance and land knee-first on a rock, causing a lancing pain to rocket down his leg and up his spine. The young man squashed a groan through gritted teeth, remarking to himself mentally about the colorful bruise that would produce. It wasn't the smoothest landing, but he was out of the house. Martin closed the window behind him as the rhythmic thumping of hooves approached, now quite loud enough to indicate three or four people had come to investigate, judging by the number of distinct voices the man heard. As Martin made his way into the backyard, he heard at the front door, merely ten meters away, a familiar gruff but feminine voice: “—bastard probably had too much to drink and killed Davin in a drunken rage, if you ask me."

A male voice replied. “Have you known Mr. Halsted to drink too much in the past?" He recognized it from passing conversations over the past few years that the man accompanying her was likely Sheriff Beaulieu.

Ms. Afzal replied, with no hesitation “Yes, definitely. And you know how men his age are given to overreacting and bravado when drunk." The brazen condescension in her voice was like venom and entirely unfamiliar to him.

Martin swore under his breath. It was Fadina, but she sounded more vindictive than ever. Why is she talking about me? The man covertly made his way to the lean-to stable behind his office, where his nag was dozing. He approached her calmly and called out to her gently, shushing her when she began to nicker. “It's okay girl," he said with a reassuring pat along her shoulder. “I'm sorry to do this to you, but we gotta get outta here. Think you can do that for me?" He opened the stall as he faintly heard the sheriffs announce they were entering the premises. The man fitted her bridle and quickly attempted to mount her: no easy feat, considering he was wearing a heavy pack, still buzzed, and this time, she wasn't wearing a saddle—but time was of the essence. Mercifully, on only his second attempt, he managed to hop on her back with a bit of a grunt from him and a quiet whinny from her. Martin gave the trusty mare a rub of the withers and spurred her on with his thighs. “Giddup!" He called to her, and despite the low light offered by the moon, she seemed to remember the path she had always taken from her stall into town. Martin did the best he could to direct her without a saddle. He managed to avoid the front of the office where the lawmen could be found, instead taking a side road out of town, opposite from how he had returned to the office from the western hills. He wasn't sure where he was heading, only that he needed to get out of town, and fast.

The moonlight provided just enough light for him to navigate by and, after several minutes of furious galloping, the man deduced that he and Clem headed south. The ride was uncomfortable, likely for Clementine too, but Martin was distracted from the discomfort by the maelstrom of thoughts, anxieties, and grief tearing through his head at gale-force speeds. Why had Davin been murdered? Why did Fadina show up with the lawmen and assume it was him? Why was her tone so much different than he was used to? Martin, clinging to the reins with his right hand, looked at his left hand again as Clem galloped ahead. In the light of the moons, his friend's blood had dried, and fissures had formed along the creases in his palm.

Martin blinked numbly as tears began to flow unbidden down his stubbled cheeks.