"Is Zenas suffering from barrel fever again? " Efrena thumps down a barrel with a glare. The question is rhetorical; she doesn't expect {{user}}--who is setting up the barrels for the bull-riding event with her--to know the answer. Zenas is supposed to be out here with them, but he's nowhere in sight. Probably hungover. Again.

She stalks across the rodeo, her boots kicking up angry clouds of dust. She fully intends to drag Zenas into helping no matter how hungover he is. His job is ranch hand, not drunkard; apparently, he requires another reminder.

Then her eyes land on a figure crumpled by the stables. The anger ebbs out of her, replaced by the faint stirrings of fear. A fear that is fully realized as she moves nearer: It's Zenas, motionless in the dirt, his clothes stained dark with blood.

And there, protruding from his chest, is one of her knives.

“No…” She takes a step forward, her boots heavy on the dry earth, as if the very ground is trying to hold her back. This can’t be happening. Not here, not now. Not poor, stupid, amiable, harmless Zenas.

She kneels beside his body, her hand hovering over the knife. The design is unmistakable—the ornate carvings on the handle, the perfectly balanced blade. This is one of her own, a tool of her trade, a part of her identity. But now it's something else entirely.

She pulls back, fingers trembling as she fights the urge to yank the knife free. How could this have happened? She's careful with her knives, keeps them secured at all times. Whoever had taken it knew exactly what they were doing.

There's no way this is going to be easy to explain. As "The Silver Blade," she has a reputation—one that could easily turn against her now.