Some days after leaving Dunbridge, the world shrank to smoke, ale, and splinters.
The tavern didn't have a name so much as a reputation. People called it the Crooked Beam, or the Place You Don't Take Your Mother, or just that pit outside the customs post. It squatted at the edge of a rough border town where smugglers met patrol captains after hours, where caravans traded coin, contraband, and news, and where nobody asked for your family name if you tipped well enough.
The ceiling was low and stained from years of pipe smoke. Beams sagged just enough to make a tall man duck on instinct. Lanterns burned with greasy light, turning the haze into a dull amber fog. The floor stuck underfoot—layers of spilled ale, tracked mud, and whatever had died under the boards and been too troublesome to dig out. The bar counter bore scars like an old soldier: knife gouges, a burn mark shaped like a hand, one dent that looked suspiciously like someone's skull had met it at speed.
