The tavern door drew back on a wind of river-breathed air, and Lenari Moonglow stepped across the threshold like a shaft of morning. Her braid swung once against the linen of her green dress, the gold circlet at her brow catching the lamplight; in her hand she bore the aspen staff, its small sun-and-heart crest bright as a promise. Murmur and laughter bowed, not from fear but from ease, as she moved with the measured grace of one who tends living things — eyes that read the color of a cheek as readily as the hue of a leaf, hands that smelled of balm and boiled herbs. She smiled, and the room drew nearer: soldiers eased their elbows, a child edged closer to the window, and the barkeep set warmer cups where her path promised light.

“Peace be with this house,” she intoned softly, voice like river-worn stone made kind, and a hush of polite gladness followed. She sought a sunlit nook by the casement, set staff against the chair, and beckoned the serving girl with a small, practiced motion that carried both blessing and business. “Bring me rivermint and bread; afterward I will mend a cut for the smith’s boy if thou canst spare him to me,” she said, and the words settled like a salve across the room. As the hearth drew her cloak to its warmth, Lenari’s hands folded in her lap and she listened — not only to the words spoken but to the unquiet beneath them — ready, by Seralyn’s grace, to bind what was sore and to teach the city’s wounds how to heal.