Philip took a seat at the counter, moving with a stiff grace that looked entirely out of place next to a grizzled elven veteran. Jack leaned against the scarred wood of the bar and caught Christine's eye.
"One glass of beer for each of us," Jack said, gesturing toward Kenlil and Tavros.
Christine didn't move. She just leaned forward, her red hair catching the dim light. "No can do, cowboy. You still have a tab to pay from last Tuesday. Pay up, or stay thirsty."
Jack let out a theatrical sigh, reaching into his pocket. "Ugh... fine." He slapped a fifty-luminaire bill onto the table. "Happy?"
Christine swept the bill away but didn't pour the drinks. Instead, her sharp gaze shifted to Philip, who was currently staring at his own reflection in the polished wood of the bar, seemingly terrified of making eye contact.
"What about you, Goldilocks?" she asked. "You look like you're lost. This isn't the opera house."
Philip took a deep, shaky breath. His fingers drummed a frantic, silent rhythm on the countertop before he forced them to still. He looked up, meeting her piercing emerald eyes. His throat hitched, and for a second, it looked like he might bolt.
"I... I..." He cleared his throat, his face flushing a light pink. Then, he remembered Jack's coaching from the walk over. Casual. Cool. Like you don't care if she hits you. "I've spent the last hour thinking of a poetic way to tell you how striking you look in that apron," Philip said, his voice wobbling slightly before smoothing out into a practiced, low baritone. "But my friends here told me you'd probably use my ribs as a xylophone if I did. So... I'd just like to know you better. Without the poetry. Just as a friend."
He finished with a small, lopsided smile—one part genuine nerves, one part scripted "cool guy" charm.
Behind him, Jack, Kenlil, and Tavros all exhaled in unison. Jack's eyes went wide. He actually stuck to the script, Jack thought. The "Angel Boy" of Marmello had managed to be flirty without being an "annoying flair."
The pub went quiet. Even the gamblers at the back slowed their shuffling. The old men at the bar focused on Philip like hawks watching a field mouse.
"What's up with the silence?" a young laborer whispered at a nearby table.
"I don't know," his friend replied, eyes fixed on the counter. "Those three nooks just brought in the Angel Boy. I think he's trying to court Chrissy, but he's doing it... weirdly smooth."
"If it's me, I'd rather take a kick to the teeth than talk to her," another added. "But look at him. He's shaking like a leaf but still smiling. He's got balls of steel."
Christine analyzed Philip for a long moment, her eyes narrowing. She leaned in closer, until she could smell the faint scent of lavender soap on him—a far cry from the sweat that usually filled the room. "A friend, huh? You look like you'd break if I sneezed too hard in your direction."
She gestured to the rows of veterans who grinned back at them with yellowed teeth. "Most of my friends here can hold their liquor better than a camel. You look like one glass of ale would have you singing lullabies to the floorboards."
"Hey, Chrissy! Give the wonder boy a break!" a veteran with a prosthetic arm shouted from the end of the bar, sparking a wave of laughter. "I bet he drinks wine out of a crystal flute! He probably thinks beer is a type of soup!"
"Can the 'Angel' even swallow without gagging?" another teased, slamming his mug down. "I've seen girls in the capital with thicker wrists than that!"
Philip felt the heat in his face intensify, but he didn't look away from Christine. He leaned one elbow on the bar—a move Jack had practiced with him three times—and tilted his head. "Although I don't usually indulge... I'd say it couldn't hurt if you were to offer a challenge. Unless you're afraid the 'Angel' might actually fly higher than you can drink."
The veterans erupted, but this time it wasn't just laughter—it was the sound of a crowd sensing blood in the water.
"Oho! The kid's got a tongue on him!" the elven veteran next to Philip barked, slapping the counter.
Christine's lips curled into a wicked smile. The challenge had been issued, and the entire bar was now an audience. "Is that so? Tell you what. If you can beat me in a drinking game, I'll be your 'friend.' If you lose... you pay the tab for every veteran in this room tonight. How's that?"
The bar went absolutely wild. Men were standing on chairs, whistling and pounding the tables. As Christine began lining up a row of shot glasses with predatory efficiency, Kenlil saw his opening amidst the chaos.
"Hey, Chrissy," Kenlil chirped, sweating slightly as she looked his way.
"What now, Ken? Are you going to pay your tab too?"
"Well, not exactly," Kenlil said, leaning in. "But I was wondering if you're looking to buy a very particular, very rare brand of whiskey."
Christine paused, a bottle of cheap rye in her hand. "What kind?"
"Rhonbrew."
Jack and Tavros both whipped their heads around, staring at Kenlil with pure disdain. "Are you planning to sell our hard-earned loot?" Tavros hissed.
"I was only going to sell a quarter of it!" Kenlil hissed back. "We don't have a single luminaire for the city tomorrow. What if we get to Juwark and they make us wait for three days before processing? We don't even have bus fare, you idiot!"
Christine's expression shifted. "You boys are signing up for the military tomorrow?"
Jack went quiet for a moment, looking at the scarred wood of the bar. "Yeah," he said, his voice dropping into a somber, steady tone. "It's time. All the guys from the block are already gone or packing their bags. I don't know... I just don't want to be the one standing on the corner like a ghost when the world is moving on. If there's a scrap to be had, I'd rather be in the thick of it than hearing about it second-hand."
"Besides," Tavros grunted, scratching the back of his neck, "my old man would never look me in the eye again if I stayed behind while the neighbor's kids were out doing the work. It's just what you do."
Kenlil leaned in, trying to regain his usual smirk but failing. "I'm just tired of being a nobody in a dead-end town. If I'm going to risk my neck, I might as well get a uniform out of it."
The rowdy noise in the pub dipped. The elderly elf next to Philip turned his stool around and looked the three boys in the eyes. He nodded slowly. "We're proud of you, sons. Just remember one thing: Don't go in there feeling like you've got something to prove. Just do your job and keep your heads down, alright?"
Jack nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "We will, sir."
Christine leaned on her elbows, her voice softening just a fraction. "So that's why you blokes are out here tonight. Looking to drink on your tab one last time before the Sergeants start screaming at you."
"Haha, of course not," Jack faked a chuckle, though his face was a mask of guilt.
"Your faces are easy to read," Christine said. She turned back to Philip. "What about you? Are you going with them?"
Philip let out a small, tired smile. "It was inevitable. I was bound to serve sooner or later. Even if my parents told me I didn't have to."
Christine looked at his features—the high cheekbones, the elegant build. "You're Aurelian, right?"
"My grandparents moved here ten years ago, during the start of the Ninth Crollean War," Philip said softly. "They made it before the Imperial Navy blockade. My mother and I... we weren't so lucky. I was only eleven when I saw my hometown burn. Every man, woman, and child that wasn't human was shot down. My mother..." Philip forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She was half-elven. She didn't make it."
The silence in the bar was heavy now, thick with the weight of old ghosts. Christine reached across the bar and squeezed Philip's hand briefly. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Nah," Philip waved it off, his voice regaining its practiced composure. "It's nothing."
Jack watched him, realizing that Philip's flamboyant persona was just a shield. Underneath the silk and the poetry was a man with a burning grudge against the Grendheich Empire.
"Miss Chrissy!" Kenlil interrupted, completely ruining the somber moment. "I appreciate the sob story, truly, but will you be purchasing three bottles of Rhonbrew off my hands or what?"
"Ken, you really are a piece of shit," Tavros muttered.
"What? I'm the Finance Officer you guys voted for! Remember? I have to prioritize our finances over some drama."
Christine sighed, exhaling a puff of smoke. "Look, we're a neighborhood pub, not a high-end lounge. I can probably only give you twenty-five percent of the market price."
"Twenty-five?! That's a robbery!" Kenlil squealed. "At least seventy-five!"
"Thirty-five."
"Sixty-five!"
"Fifty percent, and that's final," Christine snapped. "Take it or go sell it to the muggers in the East Ward."
"Fine!" Kenlil reached into his satchel and pulled out three ornate bottles of Rhonbrew.
Jack and Tavros stared at the bag. "Where the hell did you get a sub-space bag?" Jack asked.
"I'm homeless, Jack! I have to store my life in here!"
Christine counted out a stack of paper bills. "Alright. Original price is 11,379 luminaires. Fifty percent discount... that's 5,689 per bottle. Times three... that's 17,067. Here."
Kenlil grabbed the money, counting it with a manic grin. Christine watched him, a predatory smirk on her face. "I could probably serve this at ten times what I paid you. Aurelian liquor is rare as dragon teeth these days. You just got ripped off, kid."
Kenlil froze. He looked at the money, then at the bottles. "Then... I..."
Jack stepped in, gently taking the money and the satchel from Kenlil's trembling hands. "Yeah, you got royally fucked, Ken."
"I did you a favor," Christine said, pocketing the whiskey. "Anyone else would have just knifed you for those bottles. Now, you've got bus fare and a drinking budget."
"She's right, Ken," Jack said, patting his friend's shoulder. "It increases our 'relationship' with the establishment. We can drink on the tab more often now."
"Heh... you wish," Christine said.
Suddenly, the heavy door behind the bar creaked open. A massive man in his sixties, half-beastfolk with thick, grey-furred arms and the barrel chest of a blacksmith, stepped out.
"Dad," Christine said. "I thought you were asleep."
The veterans at the bar grinned. "There goes Paul. He probably smelled the whiskey from the back room."
Paul Smith snickered, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated in the floorboards. "Heh... it was too important to ignore."
Jack, Kenlil, and Tavros immediately started shuffling toward the exit, sensing a change in the wind. But in an instant—far faster than a man his size should move—Paul was at the door, blocking their path.
He looked down at them with a wide, toothy grin. "Haha, where are you boys going? We still have unfinished business from that window you broke on Tuesday, don't we?"
The three of them let out a very fake, very nervous laugh. "Haha.. I don't know what you mean, Mr. Smith."