The tavern was full but steady, the kind of night where the noise ran together in a low, constant hum. Voices layered over each other, half-laughed stories, boots scuffing against the floorboards. Someone cursed at a lost dice roll. Someone else cheered as a hand of cards turned in their favor.
It was busy—but predictable.
Taryn worked the bar without thought, letting the rhythm of it settle under her skin. Wipe, pour, move. Repeat. It should have been easy.
But something felt off. The kind of wrongness that wasn't loud, wasn't obvious—but still crawled under her skin like a warning. It wasn't the noise of the tavern, the way voices overlapped, or the occasional sharp burst of laughter. It was something else. A shift in the air. The kind of stillness that came before movement. Before violence.