"Would you like a cup, miss?"
Elara's eyes flicked upward. "Yes."
The woman smiled faintly and began preparing the full pour, carefully ladling from the urn into a finely carved, dark-lipped vessel with silver tracework. The cup itself felt older than the counter it sat on—like something from a noble's temple, not a student dormitory.
Elara took it without comment.
The warmth barely bled through the vessel's sides. The liquid inside moved differently—thicker than tea, but thinner than oil. And when she raised it to her lips, the scent again brushed up against her mind—not forcefully, but like fingers trailing over old glass.
She sipped.
It didn't burn. It didn't soothe.
It lingered.
She was still frowning faintly when the attendant stepped back. "Will that be all?"
Elara nodded. "Yes. Thank you."
The woman offered another brief incline of the head and returned to her work without asking a name.
Good.
