The bar didn't have a name anymore. Someone had pried the old sign off during the Compact years and nobody bothered to replace it. Locals just called it Quill's, after the woman behind the counter.
Market Span at evening was loud. The district sat where three tram lines crossed, which meant foot traffic from Brassline mixed with Riverpass crowds heading somewhere louder, and Crownward clerks trying to get home before the next campaign rally clogged the streets. Election posters covered every flat surface: Pulse colors promising civic joy and public celebration; Heritage Compact families smiling under the words Let us help you find yours; Tempered handbills, plain text on plain paper: Strength is earned. A Vale State Rehabilitation ad on the tram shelter — blue and white, a smiling face, the words Trust the process — had been half-covered by a Ledger utilities notice reminding residents that water subscription renewals were due by month's end.
Inside Quill's, the noise settled to a working hum. Dwarves and humans shared bar stools. A pair of orcs argued about rent near the back wall. A goblin kid slipped between tables collecting empty glasses, fast and quiet. The air carried grease, beer, damp coats, and the faint burnt-sugar trace that clung to anything near a magitech heating unit.
Jessa Quill worked the taps without looking up. Mid-forties, human, tired in a way that had settled permanently into her face. A clinic form from Softwater sat half-filled by the register — Vale intake paperwork, left unfinished. A Tempered academy flyer was pinned above the bottles, advertising adult assessment trials. Below it, someone had tacked a handwritten note: Fever night — Riverpass dock quarter — doors at ten — bring friends.
Quill's stayed open because everyone used it and nobody owned it cleanly enough to shut it down.
أنت had found a stool. The menu was short and the prices had been crossed out and rewritten twice. A small placard by the napkins read: Ledger Preferred customers receive 10% food discount. Ask about enrollment.
Quill set a glass of water down without being asked. Tap water. The glass had a faint Ledger utility stamp on the base.
"Kitchen's open for another hour," she said, already turning back to the taps. Then she paused, looked at أنت — actually looked — and something caught. No campaign pin. No faction badge. No clinic bracelet. No Tempered posture.
"You're new." She picked up a rag and started wiping the counter in front of أنت. "Or just passing through. Either way — election's in three weeks and Market Span gets weird this close. Every faction's got recruiters buying drinks in here by nine."
She let that hang.
"So. You eating, or just drinking?"
