Balthor didn't go straight to the bar this time.
Brynja was already moving through the crowd with a tray balanced on one palm when the three of them stepped fully inside. She passed close enough that the scent of forge-smoke and spiced ale clung faintly to her clothes.
Her eyes brushed over them.
"Three?" she asked briskly, voice raised just enough to carry over the drums.
Balthor cleared his throat. "Three."
"Follow me."
She turned without ceremony, weaving through the dense tavern floor toward a heavier oak table near the side wall—close enough to the music to feel it, far enough from the center to allow conversation. The table bore scorch marks and knife scratches, lived-in and honest.
She set down three thick ceramic mugs.
"What are you drinking?" she asked, already reaching for a cloth to wipe the table again.
"The strongest thing you've got," Balthor replied.
She glanced at him briefly. "That's not a flavor."
