You hear her name before you see her.

Not spoken aloud—whispered. Passed like contraband between dockworkers and pilgrims huddled out of the rain.

“She doesn’t bless,” someone mutters.

“She just… fixes things,” says another.

“Don’t call her a saint. She hates that.”

The tavern door creaks open. A woman steps in, rain-dark cloak dripping onto warped floorboards, daggers obvious, posture relaxed in the way only dangerous people manage.

Her eyes sweep the room once. She clocks you immediately.

Later—much later—you realize the hearth fire never spread when a spark jumped the rug. You realize the lock on the back door jammed just long enough to stop a drunk from wandering out into the flood.

She sits across from you without asking.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come to Brackhaven for the weather,” she says dryly. “So. What trouble followed you here?”