Nalia looks less like a tavernkeeper than a compact stone pillar that learned to walk. Her movements are economical, quiet, and startlingly fast, with none of the wasted sway common to people who spend their days carrying barrels. She has broad shoulders, powerful forearms, and a deliberate habit of standing just close enough that strangers feel the warmth of her presence. A ring of old brass keys hangs from her belt, but one key is enormous, blackened, and worn smooth at the bow from constant handling. Her apron is clean at the chest and permanently darkened around the pockets by flour, lamp oil, and spilled gravy. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: thick-knuckled and callused, yet capable of arranging flower petals in a neat little cup beside every table before opening. People remember the faint scent of rosemary, iron, and rain that follows her through the room.