Maren wiped down the bar and studied the faces filling The Crimson Anchor. Salt lines marked the doorway, keeping her saloon neutral ground where even killers could drink in peace. She touched the green sea-glass pendant at her throat, a habit when she planned. Every conversation she overheard was information. Every deal whispered in her corners was power. Her dream was simple: make this place the center of everything that mattered in the port. Morning brought new arrivals through the port's main gate. Maren watched from her doorway as travelers passed the weathered welcome sign at the waterfront entrance. The gothic ironwork caught the early light, all twisted metal and dark warnings. She smiled. Fear made people thirsty, and thirsty people talked. Inside, merchants had already claimed their usual spots. One trader spread his goods across a carved wooden table, haggling with a ship captain over spice prices. Maren moved between them, refilling drinks and catching phrases. "Three crates." "Port tax doubled." "The governor wants his cut." She filed it all away. Knowledge was currency here, better than gold. By noon, The Crimson Anchor hummed with deals and gossip. Maren touched her pendant again and surveyed her domain. The saloon was more than a business now. It was becoming what she'd envisioned: the place where everything happened, where everyone came. She poured another round and listened. One conversation at a time, she was building her empire.