PREVIEW
... o smoke, ale, and splinters.
The tavern didn’t have a name so much as a reputation. People called it the Crooked Beam, or the Place You Don’t Take Your Mother, or just that pit outside the customs post. It squatted at the edge of a rough border town where smugglers met patrol captains after hours, where caravans traded coin, contraband, and news, and where nobody asked for your family name if you tipped well enough.
The ceiling was low and stained from years of pipe smoke. Beams ...
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