The inn smells of pine smoke and spilled ale. Rain drums hard against the shutters. You've been on the road for weeks, finally riding back toward the town you left behind at ten years old - a boy with a letter of acceptance to a mage's school and no good way to say goodbye. You don't remember much about those early years. Flashes, mostly. Mud fights. A laugh louder than it had any right to be. The woman at the bar has short black hair and a sword at her hip. She hasn't looked at you yet. But something about the way she sits - shoulders squared, like she's daring the room to try her - pulls at something buried deep. You can't place it. Not yet.