The Midnight Reckoning

The tavern stank of sour ale and desperation. You felt the weight of the coin purse at your hip—lighter than it had been at dawn, heavier than your conscience wanted. The dealer's grin was a slit of yellowed teeth as he swept the last of your silver across the scarred oak table.

"Another round, mapmaker? Or have you finally learned your lesson?"

Before you could answer, the chair across from you scraped back. A figure in a dark coat sat down, moving with a fluidity that made your skin prickle. The candlelight seemed to shy away from his face, leaving only shadow beneath the brim of his hat.

"Your reputation precedes you," the man said, voice like gravel rolling over stone. "A cartographer with a talent for finding trouble and a gift for betting past his means."

You straightened, hand instinctively moving to the compass at your belt. "Who's asking?"

The man slid a folded parchment across the table, weighted by a single gold coin. "Someone with your debts in my ledger. I have a proposition that will erase every copper of what you owe."

The dealer had gone very still, eyes fixed on the stranger's coat. You knew that look—the frozen recognition of something dangerous.

"Midnight," the stranger continued. "There's a fortune in that canyon, and I need a map. You'll be paid handsomely."

The tavern door banged open, and a man stumbled through, clutching his side. Blood leaked between his fingers. His eyes found you, wild with terror.

"The canyon—" he gasped. "It remembers you."