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The bartender stared at Mal for three long seconds, wiped his mouth with his rag, and let out a tired breath. “It’s decor, pal. It makes the drink look pretty.”

“Decor...” Mal murmured, carefully pulling the tiny paper umbrella out and setting it on the bar like a prized relic.

Beside him, Manem picked up his heavy glass of Hennessy, taking a tentative, cautious sip of the dark cognac over ice. The moment the high-proof spirit hit his tongue, his eyes widened slightly, a low, appreciative hum echoing in his throat as the liquid warmth spread through his chest.

“Acceptable,” Manem grunted, taking another heavy gulp. “The mortals possess some skill in distillation after all.”

The waitress returned to our booth a minute later, carrying a tray holding three large, rounded glasses filled to the brim with slushy, bright pink strawberry daiquiris, garnished with whipped cream, maraschino cherries, and two tiny paper umbrellas.

She set the drinks down on the table. “Three strawberry daiquiris. Anything else for now?”

“We’re good, thank you,” I said, handing her a twenty-dollar bill.

She took the cash, nodded, and walked back toward the kitchen.

I looked down at the table, and a sudden, uncontrollable fit of laughter bubbled up from my lungs.

Sitting in the booth across from me was Dax, his dark green hoodie pulled up, staring down at a towering, bright pink slushy with a maraschino cherry floating on top. And sitting right beside me was Caspian—a six-foot-four, broad-shouldered Vanguard Captain clad in a dark leather moto jacket, his arms veined with muscle, his royal blue eyes burning with lethal intensity... holding a pretty pink strawberry drink between his large, calloused hands.

The contrast was so absurd that a bright laugh burst from my lips.

I leaned back against the red vinyl seat, my hand covering my mouth as tears of pure amusement pricked the corners of my eyes. It was the first time I had laughed like that in weeks. A real sound that washed away the lingering salt of the Pacific, the fear of the trial, and the suffocating weight of the timeline ticking down in my head.

“What is so hilarious, Trouble?” Caspian rasped low beside me, his deep, gravelly voice vibrating against my shoulder.

“You,” I wheezed, pointing a finger at his glass. “Look at you, Caspian! You are a High Captain, an elite dragon rider... and you are sitting in an Oregon dive bar drinking a pink strawberry slushy with a tiny paper umbrella!”

Dax picked up his straw, taking a long, cautious sip of the pink slushy. His eyes instantly went wide, a brilliant grin splitting his face as he let out a loud gasp. “Gods above! Tauriel! This tastes like crushed summer berries and sweet nectar! It’s delicious!”

“See?” I laughed, looking at Caspian. “Dax appreciates mortal mixology.”

Caspian looked down at the bright pink drink in his hand, then turned his head to look at me.

The dark, stoic mask he usually wore at court softened completely. A slow, breathtakingly handsome smirk spread across his sharp jawline, his royal blue eyes holding mine with a warm, intense light that made my breath catch in my throat. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip of the strawberry rum, his eyes never leaving my face.

“It is entirely too sweet,” Caspian rasped low, setting the glass down. He leaned in closer, his broad chest brushing my shoulder, his voice dropping to a rough whisper meant for my ears alone. “Though not nearly as sweet as your laugh.”

The laughter died in my throat, replaced by a sudden heat that flared straight down my spine. The air inside the booth turned thick, heavy, and intensely intimate, the noise of the jukebox fading into the background as Caspian held my gaze captive.

For three fragile seconds, the danger of More Alora, the threat of the High Council, and the looming execution of the Dagda-Fae vanished entirely. There was only the warmth of the booth, the smell of woodsmoke, and the unyielding warmth of the male sitting beside me.

Then—the air inside the tavern ruptured.

It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a physical blow.

It was a sudden shift in the ambient pressure of the room—a subtle, cold wave of unmistakable, high-born magic that hit my marrow like a bucket of liquid ice.

My laughter vanished instantly.

The silver brand on my right shoulder flared beneath my leather jacket, burning with a sharp warning, while the dark black ink of my Remnikai tattoos writhed against my forearms.

Beside me, Caspian’s posture snapped into a rigid, lethal wire in a fraction of a second. His hand dropped toward his concealed dagger, his eyes flaring with an unhinged, predatory heat as his gaze shot across the tavern. Across the room, Mal and Manem instantly set their glasses down, their bodies turning toward the shadowed rear corridor of the building.

“Tauriel...” Dax whispered, his wolfish grin disappearing as his hand clamped around the hilt of his blade beneath his green hoodie. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” I rasped, my green eyes scanning the darkened back corner of the tavern.

Sitting alone at a small, circular table tucked deep into the shadows near the card room was a male.