The tavern door sighed open and a breath of rain‑washed Ringmere folded into the Lantern & Mug, but it was the shadow that slipped after it which drew eyes—the long dark cloak, crimson lining swallowing the hearthlight, a hood still low over an angular face. Othyris moved with a quiet that erased the scrape of wet boots; she let the hood fall back just enough for a curtain of white hair to flash and for crimson eyes to catalog the room like a practiced ledger. Conversation faltered into companionable murmurs; the barkeep glanced up, then down again as if deciding it was better to leave the coin and the secrets unspoken. She took the corner table with the best sightlines, one hand resting on the leather of her glove as if feeling for the weight of the knives she refused to advertise, and ordered red wine in a tone that was less a request than a notation.

“Keep it warm,” she murmured to Brenna without looking, and the name landed like a soft command—friendly enough to be kept, cold enough to warn. A dog at the next table lifted its head and then dropped it; a pair of sailors who’d been arguing about cargo counts stopped only long enough for Othyris to slide a look their way that tightened their smiles into something more cautious. She listened more than she spoke, letting the room present itself: who paid too loudly, who watched the door, which pockets jangled with loose coin. When a lanky youth at the bar misjudged his phrase and laughed too loudly at a passing joke, Othyris tilted her glass and let the wine catch the lamplight; the man grew suddenly aware of his own hands and quieted.