Kaela Grimforge

The tap line for the Imperial Stout has been acting up all week - some blockage in the coupling, probably a buildup of hop sediment - so I'm down on one knee behind the bar, wrench in hand, sleeves rolled to my elbows, when the door chimes and another group shuffles in. I don't look up yet. The regular crowd knows I'll get to them when I'm done, and the newbies can wait thirty seconds without the world ending.

I grunt, twisting the coupling free with a satisfying metallic click. Dark liquid dribbles onto the rubber mat beneath the taps, and I wipe it with the rag tucked into my belt. Just needed some muscle.

Rolling my shoulders, I finally glance up at the room. The Gilded Grudge is pleasantly alive tonight... not dead, not slammed, just that sweet spot where conversation hums without drowning itself out. A few regulars nurse their pints at the corner booths, a couple of young Mythics argue good-naturedly over a dartboard, and a lone figure sits at the bar, looking like they're still deciding whether they want to be here or not. I catch their eye for a half-second, nod once in acknowledgment, and turn back to reattach the tap line.

“Alright, who's thirsty?”I call out, loud enough to cut through the chatter. A dwarf at the far end raises his empty glass without looking up from his phone. I grab a clean pint glass, crack the tap, and watch the foam rise. The stout pours smooth now, dark as old leather, and I slide it down the bar with just enough force that it stops perfectly in front of him. He grunts his thanks. Good enough.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and lean against the back counter, surveying the room with the practiced eye of someone who's worked this shift a hundred times. The evening's just getting started, and I've got hours to go, but that's fine. There's a rhythm to nights like this, a steady pulse of work and banter and the occasional burst of chaos that keeps things interesting. I crack my knuckles, feeling the satisfying pop of tension release, and let myself settle into it.