The air in The Gilded Mug was thick with the scent of damp wool and spilled mead. But when Elara set down the glass, it cut through the noise, a bright, floral note that turned heads. The amber liquid, shimmering with a hint of rose gold, was unlike anything else on the wooden bar.

"What's this, then?" Lysander asked, his voice a low rumble. He leaned forward, his nose nearly touching the rim.

Elara smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "A new one. For the weary, the wild, and the ones who still believe in midnight spells." She slid the glass toward him, the faint condensation leaving a trail on the scarred wood. "Dedicated to the fae, the feral, and the fem. It's a whisper of a brew, a 5.5% pale ale spun from things best not spoken of in full daylight."

Lysander took a slow sip. His eyebrows, as thick as brambles, rose in surprise. "There's… hibiscus?" he murmured, the word tasting strange on his tongue.

"And a whisper of vanilla, from a pod that fell to earth in a forgotten wood," Elara added, her voice dropping. "And honey from the wild hearts of the bees." She gestured to the glass, a soft, inviting motion. "It's built on a new hop, the pale-pink Pink from Jackson Farms. They say it only grows where the moonlight touches the soil just so."

He took another, deeper drink, savoring the light, subtle flavors. The clamor of the tavern seemed to fade. "Rosy-Fingered Dawn," he said, the name a soft echo. "It tastes like the first morning after a long, strange dream."

Elara nodded. "Drink it slow," she advised, her smile both warm and knowing. "Let it be a spell on your tongue."