The tavern was loud long before anyone raised their voice. It sat at the edge of the lower district, built from dark wood stained by years of smoke, spilled ale, and grease. The floorboards creaked under constant movement, sticky in places where drinks had soaked in and never thoroughly dried. Long tables filled the room, some scarred with knife marks, others uneven from poor repairs. Benches were pushed close together, forcing strangers to sit shoulder to shoulder whether they liked it or not.
The air was thick. Smoke from oil lamps and pipes hung low near the ceiling. The smell of alcohol mixed with sweat, fried meat, old bread, and damp wool cloaks. A fire burned at one end of the tavern, not for comfort but for cooking. A large pot sat over it, bubbling with something that looked thin but filling enough for those who had no better options.
