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I led Caspian and Dax toward a deep, red vinyl booth tucked into the back corner of the room, positioned directly beneath a stained-glass beer sign. From here, we had an unobstructed view of the front entrance, the bar, and the darkened hallway leading back to the restrooms.

Caspian slid into the vinyl bench beside me, his broad, furnace-hot frame completely filling his side of the booth. His shoulder pressed firmly against mine, radiating a staggering heat that instantly burned away the lingering draft from the doorway. His royal blue eyes swept the room once, twice, before locking onto the bar where Mal and Manem were settling onto two leather swivel stools.

“Let’s see how the commander handles mortal mixology,” Dax grinned, sliding into the vinyl seat across from us, his high-tops resting flat on the carpet as a young, tired-looking waitress in an apron walked up to our table holding a notepad.

“Morning, folks,” the waitress said, her voice raspy. Her eyes lingered on Caspian’s sharp jawline and broad chest for a second longer than necessary before she looked down at her pad. “What can I get you to drink?”

“We’ll take three strawberry daiquiris, please,” I said smoothly, offering her a polite smile.

“You got it. Whiskey or rum base?”

“Rum, please.”

She jotted it down and walked off toward the service bar, completely unaware that two of the males at her table were currently calculating the structural load of the building’s roof beams.

Over at the main bar, the real show was about to begin.

I leaned my elbows on the laminate table, watching through the dim light as the gruff, bearded bartender set down his wiping rag and stepped up to Mal and Manem.

“What’ll it be, fellas?” the bartender grunted, eyeing Mal’s sharp features and Manem’s massive, scarred arms.

Mal cleared his throat, lifting his chin with the supreme, effortless confidence of an eastern lord attempting to speak a foreign dialect. He leaned one elbow on the sticky bar top as he held the bartender’s gaze.

“I shall take a glass of the... Ta-quay-la,” Mal announced, pronouncing the word with careful, bizarrely melodic emphasis. “Served with the traditional crushed salt and fresh lime, if you please.”

The bartender blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as he stared at Mal as if he had just spoken in ancient High Elven. “A shot of tequila? You want Patron, or house?”

“House,” Mal said smoothly, completely unbothered. “And ensure the lime is ripe.”

The bartender let out a heavy sigh, grabbing a bottle of gold tequila, then turned his focus to Manem, who was sitting stiff as an iron rail on his barstool, his dark eyes fixed on the rows of glass bottles lining the mirror behind the bar.

“And you, big guy?” the bartender asked.

Manem squared his broad shoulders, his voice booming across the quiet tavern like a parade command. “Bring me the Hennessy!”

The bartender reached down, pulling a heavy glass tumbler and a bottle of dark cognac from the shelf. “On the rocks?”

Manem froze. His dark eyes narrowed into slit-like points, his posture locking into an immediate, lethal wire as he stared at the bartender’s face.

“On the rocks?” Manem repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous rumble. He glanced frantically over his shoulder toward our booth, catching my eye.

I pressed my lips together, fighting the sudden urge to laugh, and called out across the small space in a clear voice: “Yes, Manem! On the rocks! Two fingers!”

Manem snapped his head back to the bartender, his chest puffing out with deep military indignation. “I do NOT want fingers in my drink, mortal! Keep your flesh out of my cognac!”

The bartender paused mid-pour, staring at Manem with pure shock, his jaw practically dropping to his apron.

“It’s a measurement!” I called out from the booth, burying my face in my hands as my shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Two fingers height of liquid in the glass! It means two inches!”

Manem blinked, the realization dawning on his fierce face as he cleared his throat loudly, adjusting his dark shirt collar with immense dignity. “Ah. Yes. Two fingers of the cognac. On the frozen stones.”

The bartender slowly shook his head, muttering something under his breath about Oregon day-drinkers, before pouring two fingers of Hennessy over square ice cubes and sliding the glass across the bar to Manem.

A moment later, he finished preparing Mal’s drink. He slid a salt-rimmed glass of gold tequila and a lime wedge across the wood—along with a tiny, brightly colored paper umbrella resting inside the ice.

Mal picked up the small glass between two long fingers. He brought it up to eye level, staring intensely at the tiny pink-and-yellow paper canopy pinned to a toothpick.

Mal turned in his seat, looking at the bartender with genuine curiosity. “Tell me, barkeep... is this tiny canopy meant to deflect a miniature storm? Or is it an ancient warding symbol against poison?”