By the time the rain eased into a tired drizzle, the Winking Widow had found a new rhythm.
Not peace—Gullwatch didn't offer that.
But structure.
Brann's team staged in the dining room like a disciplined invasion. Maps spread, routes traced, supply lists murmured over stew and tea. Locals drifted in and out around them, careful but curious, sniffing the change in the air the way animals sensed a shift in weather.
Rowena worked the room with her practiced warmth. Miri carried bowls and mugs until her arms ached and her pride held her up anyway. Ronan kept the kitchen consistent, kept the doors latched, kept his mind on two tracks at once—feeding today and building tomorrow.
And somewhere in the middle of that movement, he realized the inn didn't just need better food and stronger hinges.
It needed rules.
Visible ones.
Rules weren't control for control's sake. They were clarity. They kept people from testing boundaries just to see if they could.
So after breakfast—when the tables were sticky with crumbs and Brann's team had moved outside to check gear—Ronan hauled the old chalkboard from behind the counter.
It was the same board Rowena used for "today's stew" and "rooms available," its corners rounded from years of being moved and forgotten. He dragged it to the front wall where everyone would see it as soon as they stepped in.
Rowena blinked at him. "What are you doing?"
"Making this place legible," Ronan said.
He took a rag, wiped the board clean, then paused, chalk in hand, thinking like he was drafting a raid plan.
Simple. Enforceable. No clever wording. No loopholes.
He wrote in block letters so even half-drunk sailors could read it.
THE WINKING WIDOW — HOUSE CODE
He underlined it once.
Then the rules:
1) NO HARASSMENT OF STAFF OR GUESTS.
He didn't add "please." He didn't soften it.
2) NO WEAPONS IN THE COMMON ROOM.— CHECK THEM AT THE COUNTER.
3) ROOMS REQUIRE DEPOSIT. DAMAGES PAID. NO EXCEPTIONS.
4) DISPUTES GO OUTSIDE. SETTLE IT YOURSELVES.— BRING IT BACK INSIDE = BAN.
He stared at that last one, then added one more line beneath it.
5) IF YOU REFUSE THE HOUSE CODE, YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.
Rowena read it silently, lips parting.
"That's…" she began.
"Clear," Ronan finished.
Rowena swallowed. "People will get angry."
Ronan's gaze stayed on the board. "Good. Let them get angry where I can see it."
Rowena's horns twitched back, the old instinct to appease flickering. "But—"
Ronan turned to her. His voice was calm, not harsh. "Rowena, this inn can't be everyone's safe place if it's a bully's playground."
Rowena's throat worked. She nodded slowly. "Okay."
Miri, passing by with a stack of cleaned mugs, stopped and stared at the board like it was a miracle.
"Is that… real?" she whispered.
Ronan glanced at her. "It is."
Miri's eyes shone in a way that made Ronan's chest tighten unexpectedly. She nodded and hurried back to her work with a little more spine in her steps.
A shadow fell across the board.
Brann had returned, ducking in with a gust of cold air, shaking rain from his cloak like a dog.
He read the rules once, eyebrows lifting, then burst into a loud laugh that made half the dining room look up.
"Look at you," Brann boomed. "Putting up guild rules in a fishing inn."
Ronan didn't rise to the bait. "Rules keep fights from turning into fires."
Brann slapped the counter and grinned at Rowena. "He's really becoming an innkeeper. Next he'll start charging for breathing."
Rowena let out a nervous laugh, relieved to have the humor cut the tension.
Ronan shot Brann a flat look. "You're welcome to breathe outside."
Brann laughed harder. "See? Stern as ever."
Ronan didn't deny it. He picked up the chalk again.
Because the house code was the backbone.
Now came the "hub" touches—the things that made adventurers treat a place like a staging ground instead of a random tavern.
He added a smaller section beneath the rules.
STAGING TABLE — RESERVED FOR TEAMS.MEAL TIMES POSTED:
Breakfast: Dawn – Midmorning
Stew & Bread: Midday – Late Afternoon
Hot Pot: Sunset – Night
He wasn't promising luxury. He was promising predictability.
Then he took a slate board—cleaned, lined—and wrote:
RESERVATIONS (ROOMS):
Below it, empty slots with dates scratched in, simple enough for Rowena to manage at the counter. A place where names could live instead of in Rowena's panicked memory.
He placed the slate on a hook near the counter, visible, official.
Rowena stared at it like she'd never imagined her inn could look… organized.
"This will help," she whispered.
Ronan nodded. "Yes."
Brann leaned closer to Ronan, voice lower. "You planning to make this place a hub?"
Ronan's eyes stayed steady. "If we don't, someone else will decide what it is."
Brann's grin faded into something more respectful. "Fair."
The first test came faster than Ronan expected.
It always did.
That afternoon, the inn was busy again—locals ducking in from the drizzle, Brann's support members coming and going, the village's curiosity turning into foot traffic. The staging table held maps and gear, and Ronan's posted meal times had done something surprising: people stopped demanding food like it was owed to them. They planned around it.
Small shift. Big effect.
Rowena was at the counter when voices rose near the staging table.
Not shouting yet—but sharp.
One of Brann's B-ranks—Sabine, spear propped against the wall near the counter like she'd read the board and decided to cooperate—was speaking to a local fisherman with a red nose and a pride problem.
"You can't take that path today," Sabine said, controlled. "We're surveying the coastal ridge. It's a hazard zone until we finish."
The fisherman bristled. "I've walked that ridge since you were in diapers."
Sabine's eyes stayed steady. "Then you should know how many people fall off it in fog."
"That's my business!" the fisherman snapped.
"It becomes everyone's business when we have to carry your body," Sabine replied, voice crisp.
The fisherman slammed his hand on the table. "You think you own our land because you've got shiny badges?"
A couple locals murmured. A couple of Brann's support members looked up, tense. The air tightened. Pride met pride, and the inn's warmth began to sour.
Rowena moved instantly, slipping around the counter with her hands raised, smile gentle.
"Hey," she said brightly, too bright. "Let's— let's not—"
The fisherman turned toward her, anger redirecting. "Rowena, tell your guests to mind their own damn business."
Rowena flinched, but held her smile. "They're just doing their job—"
Sabine's jaw tightened, her patience thinning. The spear at her side seemed to echo that tension, a silent reminder of power.
This was how it started.
A small dispute.
A raised voice.
A threat.
Then a chair thrown.
Then blood on the floor.
Ronan stepped into the space between them like a door closing.
He didn't rush. He didn't bark.
He just arrived—calm, solid, unavoidable.
The room quieted without anyone meaning to.
Ronan looked at the fisherman first. "Outside," he said simply.
The fisherman blinked. "What?"
Ronan tilted his head toward the board, visible over everyone's shoulders. "House code."
The fisherman's eyes flicked to it, then back, offended. "I'm not fighting her."
Ronan's voice stayed level. "Then you're not fighting at all. And you're not shouting in my common room."
The fisherman's face reddened. "This is Rowena's inn."
Ronan didn't deny it. "And I run the floor."
Rowena's throat bobbed. She looked like she wanted to apologize for existing.
Ronan didn't give her the chance.
He turned to Sabine. "And you," he said, just as calmly.
Sabine's eyes sharpened. "Yes?"
Ronan's tone didn't change. "You're a guest. You don't escalate inside."
Sabine held his gaze for a beat, then nodded once. "Understood."
The fisherman sputtered. "She started it!"
Ronan looked back at him. "You started it when you hit the table."
The fisherman's mouth opened, then closed.
Ronan's voice softened by a fraction—still firm, but less sharp. "Talk," he said. "Both of you. What's the actual problem?"
The fisherman's shoulders rose and fell with anger. "They're blocking our route."
Sabine's reply was immediate. "It's a hazard zone until we finish. We're doing the inspection. It's rule."
Ronan nodded once. "So the issue is access and timing."
Both of them blinked, thrown off by how quickly he reduced emotion into logistics.
Ronan continued, "You need to fish. She needs to survey. You don't need to fight about pride to solve that."
He looked to the fisherman. "Is there an alternate route?"
The fisherman grunted. "There's the lower path, but it's longer."
Ronan nodded. Then looked to Sabine. "Can you provide a clear window when the ridge is open again?"
Sabine hesitated, then nodded. "By sunset. If we don't find structural collapse signs."
Ronan nodded. "So we post it. On the board. Hazard zone until sunset. Anyone ignores it does so at their own risk."
The fisherman scowled. "And if I still want to go?"
Ronan's gaze stayed steady. "Then you go. But you don't blame the guild when you get hurt. And you don't bring the argument here."
The fisherman stared at him, then—slowly—his anger deflated into grudging realism.
"…Fine," he muttered.
Sabine nodded once. "Agreed."
The room exhaled.
Rowena stood slightly behind Ronan, hands clenched, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
When people returned to their bowls and maps, Rowena whispered, "I'm sorry. I couldn't— I didn't—"
Ronan turned to her, brow furrowing. "You did your job," he said.
Rowena blinked. "But I didn't fix it."
"You kept it from turning ugly," Ronan said. "You're the face. The warmth. You don't need to be the hammer."
Rowena's eyes went glossy. "I feel useless."
Before Ronan could respond, Brann's voice boomed from behind them, amused and warm.
"He's terrible at comforting women," Brann announced, loud enough to embarrass Ronan and make a couple patrons laugh. "He cares. He just sounds like he's issuing orders to a wall."
Ronan shot Brann a look that could've cut wood. "Brann."
Brann grinned wider. "What? It's true."
Rowena startled, then a small laugh escaped her—real this time, not forced. It loosened the knot in her chest.
Brann leaned in, lowering his voice slightly. "Ronan's stern," he said to Rowena, still smiling. "But he's the kind of man who stands between you and trouble without asking for applause."
Rowena looked at Ronan, expression softening into something complicated.
Ronan looked away first, uncomfortable with praise.
Brann's grin turned mischievous again. "Now," he said loudly, "who's hungry?"
The hook arrived before the evening stew.
Two men walked in like they belonged.
Not the gang's leader—smaller fish—but street toughs with clean boots and cheap confidence. Their coats were damp, their eyes sharp. They entered slow, letting the room notice them.
They paused immediately in front of the board.
They read it.
Their mouths curled into matching smirks.
One of them chuckled. "House code," he said, like the words tasted funny.
The other leaned toward the counter, gaze sliding past Rowena to Ronan with lazy entitlement. "We should talk to the owner," he drawled. "About street tax."
Rowena's smile tightened.
Ronan didn't move.
Behind them, the inn's hearth crackled steady—warm, watchful—like it already knew the next test was walking through the door.