Morning came in grey and damp, the kind of light that made everything look honest.
The Winking Widow wore last night like a bruise.
Not in broken bones—Ronan had made sure the chairs stood, the floor was scrubbed, the latch held—but in the way the air felt tight. Like the inn had learned something ugly about the world and hadn't decided yet whether to forgive it.
A faint scorch-mark line still darkened one strip of floor where boiling water had hissed a warning. A chair leg had a fresh wedge hammered in. One lantern on the wall hung slightly crooked from being bumped in the scramble of movement. None of it screamed attack.
But Ronan saw it.
Rowena saw it too. She smiled at patrons a second too bright, laughed a fraction too fast, and kept touching the counter as if wood could reassure her it was still real. Her horns twitched whenever the door opened. Every time the wind hit just right, her gaze flicked—quick, involuntary—toward the kitchen corner where the sealed cellar door hid under boards and silence.
Ronan didn't mention it.
Not because he forgot.
Because he hadn't decided yet whether opening it would save her or break her.
Breakfast service continued anyway. Frontier life didn't pause for fear.
Miri moved between tables with bowls of porridge and mugs of weak tea, cheeks flushed from speed. She had a new confidence in her steps—still young, still jumpy, but no longer drowning in chaos. She called orders out clearly now, voice bouncing off the rafters.
"Two chowder—no, sorry—two hash! One extra bread!"
Ronan answered from the kitchen without looking up. "Heard."
Rowena worked front of house like Ronan had ordered: warm, steady, a smile that made the inn feel like a shelter instead of a trap. She greeted fishermen by name. She teased a caravan driver into paying for a second room "just in case the rain lasts." She scolded a sailor gently for dripping water on the floor, then handed him a rag with a laugh so he'd clean it himself.
Normal.
She was trying so hard to make it normal.
Ronan was wiping down the pass window when he felt it—before the sound reached him.
A pressure in the street outside.
Footsteps, but not random. A cadence. A discipline.
He stepped out of the kitchen and angled his head toward the front windows.
Down the dock-lane, a line of people approached through the rain like a small patrol. Not villagers. Not fishermen. Gear-laden, hooded cloaks, weapons kept neat and controlled. Packs strapped properly. Boots that moved in the same rhythm.
Adventurers.
Not the ragged kind who drifted into frontier towns looking for cheap ale. These were organized. Purpose-driven.
And at their front walked a man who made the street feel narrower.
Brann.
Broad-shouldered, tall, with a scar that cut across one brow and a calm in his posture that only came from surviving too many things that wanted him dead. He moved like a boulder that had decided to walk. A heavy weapon—an axe, wrapped in oilcloth—rested over his shoulder as casually as a shovel.
An A-rank didn't need to announce himself. The world did it for him.
People noticed. Heads turned. Conversations lowered without anyone meaning to.
Rowena saw them too. Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat—uncertainty, nerves, calculation.
Then she straightened her shoulders and stepped forward.
The inn door opened.
Rain wind shoved in, cold and salty.
Brann ducked through the frame without hunching like a man used to small places, and the rest of the procession followed in a neat file. Two B-ranks by their posture—one a woman with a spear and a pragmatic face, one a lean man with twin daggers and eyes that never stopped scanning. Behind them came support members: a healer with a staff and a satchel of wrapped vials, a scribe with a waterproof tube tucked under his arm, and a quiet-looking porter whose pack was large enough to be insulting.
They carried extra weight too—bundled carcasses wrapped in canvas, the shape of hunted game slung across shoulders.
The inn's patrons stared openly now. Some with admiration. Some with the wary look villagers gave to powerful strangers.
Rowena lifted her chin. "Welcome to—"
Brann's eyes found Ronan over her shoulder.
And Brann's face cracked into something almost like joy.
"Well, I'll be damned," Brann said, voice booming warm through the room. "Ronan Kerr."
Ronan didn't smile wide. He didn't need to. The relief hit his chest anyway, unexpected and sharp.
"Brann," Ronan said. "Didn't expect to see you in a fishing village."
Brann barked a laugh and stepped forward like the inn belonged to him. He clapped Ronan on the shoulder hard enough to make an average man stagger. Ronan barely shifted.
"Still solid," Brann declared, grinning. "Like trying to punch a wall."
Rowena stared between them, confused. "You… know each other?"
Brann's grin widened. "Know him? I've bled with him." He turned slightly, voice carrying so everyone could hear. "This man kept our team alive in the Emberline tunnels when half the guild thought we were dead already."
A ripple went through the room. Whispers. Interest. Respect.
Rowena's eyes widened, a flicker of pride and fear mixed together—because reputations brought attention, and attention brought trouble.
Ronan kept his tone dry. "You're exaggerating."
Brann snorted. "I'm understating." Then he lifted his hand and jerked his thumb toward the bundles behind him. "Brought you a gift. Game on the road. Saw it and thought, 'Ronan's probably feeding people porridge and guilt. He needs real meat.'"
The porter stepped forward and dropped one bundle carefully near the hearth. Canvas shifted, revealing the outline of a boar or large stag—something with serious weight.
Brann leaned in, voice lowering just enough to make it feel personal while still public. "I missed your cooking," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Remember that stew you made in the Ironroot cavern? Ugly as sin, but it kept us standing."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "That was survival food."
Brann pointed at him. "Exactly. Best kind." Then he looked around the inn, taking in the steadier station layout, the clean pass window, the way bowls came out consistent. His grin softened slightly. "Looks like you've turned survival into habit."
Rowena found her voice again, professional. "If you're here to eat, we have—"
Brann waved a hand. "We're here to work."
The spear woman stepped forward, crisp. "Yearly inspection cycle," she said, voice clear. "Land dungeon nearby—C-rank evaluation currently. By rule, leadership must be at least one rank above. A-rank lead with support team."
The scribe nodded, already unscrewing his waterproof tube.
Brann planted his hand on the counter. "We'll be staging here."
That line—said casually, said loud—hit the inn like a bell.
A few patrons murmured. Someone whistled under their breath. A fisherman muttered, "An A-rank… here?"
Rowena's smile tightened again. Staging meant traffic. Traffic meant coin. Coin meant hope.
Staging also meant attention.
And attention meant predators sniffing closer.
Brann didn't seem to care about that. Or maybe he did, and that was why he was here.
He turned to Rowena finally, giving her a respectful nod like she mattered—because he'd spent enough time around Ronan to know the kind of man who didn't attach himself to fools.
"You must be Rowena," Brann said.
Rowena blinked. "I am. Welcome."
Brann smiled, warm but not flirting. "You're running a good roof."
Rowena's cheeks pinked. "We're… improving."
Brann slapped a small pouch of coin onto the counter with a solid clink. "Upfront. Rooms for my team for the duration of inspection. Food too. We'll pay fair."
Rowena's eyes widened like she'd been handed a miracle. "You don't have to—"
Brann cut her off kindly. "I don't do tabs. Too many good people drown under them."
Rowena swallowed hard. "Thank you."
Brann gestured behind him. "We'll need a meeting space. Somewhere we can lay maps and argue without disturbing your guests."
Ronan nodded toward a side area near the hearth—two tables that could be pushed together, partially separated by a wooden divider. "There."
Brann's eyes gleamed. "Perfect."
As the team began to settle—support members shaking off rain, the spear woman scanning exits, the dagger man already checking the backdoor latch out of habit—Miri hurried past with a tray of bowls, eyes huge at the sight of so many armed strangers.
Rowena caught her gently by the sleeve. "Miri," she murmured. "Just keep serving. Same as always."
Miri nodded fast, then darted away, nearly colliding with the healer.
The healer smiled kindly and stepped aside. "You're doing fine," she said, and Miri looked like she might cry from relief.
Ronan watched the team with an innkeeper's eye now, not a raid captain's. They were disciplined. Professional. But any group that large would strain supplies if not managed.
Then a knock came at the counter—soft.
Rowena turned and saw a messenger boy dripping rainwater onto the floor, cap in hand, eyes darting nervously at the A-rank's presence.
"For you," the boy said, holding out a sealed letter.
Rowena hesitated, then took it. The seal was familiar. The wax mark.
Her breath caught.
"Tessa," she whispered.
Ronan's gaze flicked to the letter. Warm relief rose in his chest, followed immediately by the practical thought: Tessa knows. She's checking in. She wants confirmation they're still breathing.
Rowena broke the seal with trembling fingers and read fast, lips moving silently. Her expression softened—real warmth, like sunlight breaking through rain.
"She… she asked if we're okay," Rowena said quietly, voice thick. "She said she heard rumors about 'trouble' and told me not to be stubborn and proud." A small laugh escaped her, shaky. "That sounds like her."
Ronan nodded. "It does."
Rowena pressed the letter to her chest for a heartbeat, then tucked it safely beneath the counter like it was precious.
Brann watched the exchange with a thoughtful look, then turned his attention back to Ronan.
"So," he said, voice low enough that only Ronan caught the seriousness beneath it. "You're really doing it. Retired captain turned inn man."
Ronan's eyes stayed steady. "Looks like it."
Brann's grin returned, but it wasn't carefree. "Good. Because I chose this place on purpose."
Ronan's jaw tightened slightly. "Why?"
Brann jerked his chin subtly toward the street outside. "Because I heard your name attached to this inn. And because frontier towns get eaten when no one strong stands in the doorway."
Ronan didn't answer, but his gaze drifted toward the window. Rain blurred the street into grey streaks.
Brann continued, casually loud again as he moved toward the meeting tables. "Everyone listen—maps in ten. We're staging here. No wandering off alone."
The team responded with disciplined murmurs of assent.
The inn's patrons watched with fascination. Some looked reassured. Some looked uneasy—A-rank attention could be a storm all on its own.
And near the door, half-hidden by a post, a passerby stood just a little too still.
Not a patron. Not a worker. Hood up, face angled down.
Ronan's eyes narrowed. The man's gaze wasn't on the food. Not on Brann's team. Not on the hearth.
It was on the coin pouch Brann had dropped. On the idea of power taking root inside the Winking Widow.
The passerby's eyes flicked to Ronan for a fraction of a second—sharp, assessing—then away. He shifted, casual, pretending he'd just been passing.
Then he slipped out into the rain.
Too quick. Too smooth.
A runner.
Ronan's posture didn't change. He didn't chase—not yet.
But his mind drew the line instantly.
Someone was going to "report" this.
An A-rank staging at the Winking Widow wasn't just good news.
It was a provocation.
And somewhere in Gullwatch, a gang leader who'd promised to come back when the inn was empty was about to learn the inn wasn't going to be empty anymore—…and that made men like Darric either back down or bring something worse.