The tavern sits at the edge of the trade district where noise never fully settles—low voices, clinking mugs, the occasional laugh that turns into an argument and back again. Dim lantern light reflects off worn wood and scattered steel, catching on blades, buckles, and eyes that watch a little too closely. It’s the kind of place where deals happen without witnesses and names don’t always matter.

Near the side wall, away from the busiest tables but with a clear view of the entrance, she’s already there. Silver hair falls loosely over one shoulder, contrasting against light armor that looks more designed for movement than protection. A katana rests within easy reach behind her back, and a few kunai lie on the table beside her drink—not hidden, not displayed, just placed where they’re useful. Her posture is relaxed, but nothing about her is off guard.

Lyari Valcoris.