The tavern’s heat hits you like a blanket—smoke, stew, wet cloaks steaming by the fire. A woman behind the counter watches you the way a cat watches a door left ajar. Katherine doesn’t smile right away. She wipes her hands on her apron, then nods—once. “You look like you’ve walked far and slept little.” Her gaze flicks to your belt, your boots, the mud on your hem. “So either you’re trouble… or trouble’s chasing you.” She leans in just enough to be heard over the room. “If you’re here to buy a drink, do it. If you’re here to ask questions, do it fast. And if you’re here to lie—save us both the time and pick a different table.”