Dawn in Gullwatch didn't arrive like a sunrise.
It arrived like the sea changing its mind.
The rain had eased overnight into a restless mist, and by the time the sky lightened, everything smelled of salt and wet rope. Lanterns still burned in a few windows. Fishermen moved like ghosts along the dock, shoulders hunched, boots soft on planks.
Ronan left the Winking Widow before the first breakfast call.
Not because he liked mornings.
Because control started with supplies.
He wore his cloak, kept his coin pouch tucked close, and carried a slate with numbers already written—how much flour they had, how many bowls Brann's team could consume in a day, what they needed to stock now while the inn still had momentum.
The market in Gullwatch wasn't a "market" the way Greyhaven had markets. It was a muddy lane between fish stalls and stacked crates, with awnings patched so many times they'd become their own kind of fabric.
Marla Quill's stall was easy to find—not because it was big, but because it was ordered.
Her jars sat in neat rows. Her sacks were labeled. Her scales looked like they'd bite anyone who tried to cheat.
Marla herself stood behind the counter with her arms folded, hair tied back, eyes sharp enough to price a man at a glance.
She saw Ronan approach and didn't smile, but her posture relaxed by a fraction. "You're early."
"I'm serious," Ronan replied.
Marla's mouth twitched. "That's what 'early' means to you people."
Ronan set his slate down. "I need more variety. Not just bulk."
Marla raised a brow. "You found coin?"
"I found demand," Ronan corrected. "Brann Harrow's team is staging at the Winking Widow."
That landed.
Marla's eyes flicked up, recalculating. "A-rank. In this village."
"Yes," Ronan said. "So I need spices that don't make everything taste like boiled regret."
Marla made a sound that might've been a laugh. "Your standards are improving."
Ronan tapped the slate. "Dried rosemary. Smoked paprika. Whole peppercorns. Cumin. More thyme. And whatever you've got that works in stews without turning them into perfume."
Marla leaned forward, scanning his list, then nodded once. "I can do it. But you'll pay clean."
"I always do," Ronan said.
Marla's gaze sharpened. "Rowena doesn't."
Ronan didn't flinch. "My name is on the order."
Marla nodded. "Good." She reached under the counter and pulled out a small jar. "Here."
Ronan eyed it. "What is it?"
"Coastal chili," Marla said. "Grows in the cliff gardens. Tiny, mean." She slid it closer. "A pinch in chowder makes fishermen think you're flirting with them."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "I'm not flirting with anyone."
Marla's expression remained flat. "You're feeding them. Same effect."
Ronan paid, arranged delivery timing, and made sure everything was written down. No vague promises. No room for "misunderstandings."
Then he headed to Old Jory.
The fishmonger was already elbow-deep in his trade, gutting a silver-scaled catch with hands that moved like they'd been born holding a knife. His stall smelled like brine and iron. A few regulars nodded at Ronan with wary respect—word traveled fast in small villages.
Jory looked up, saw Ronan, and grunted. "Inn man."
"Fish man," Ronan replied.
Jory snorted. "You got more mouths now."
Ronan held up the slate. "I'm ordering for the next few weeks. Set schedule."
Jory's brows rose. "Weeks."
"Brann's staging here," Ronan said.
Jory swore softly. "That's big trouble or big fortune."
"Both," Ronan said.
Jory wiped his hands on his apron and leaned in. "I can't give credit. Not after—"
"I'm not asking," Ronan interrupted. "I'm paying clean. But I want consistency. And if you can't spare extra, I'll pay for preserved packs too. Salted fish. Dried strips. Anything we can store."
Jory studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll give extra fish per order. Like I told Rowena's husband before he started drowning in stupid decisions."
Ronan accepted that without comment. "Done."
They worked out quantities, delivery days, and what happened if storms delayed boats. Again—paper, clarity, no guesswork.
By the time Ronan left the market, his hands were cold and his mind was busy in the best way. The kind of busy that built things instead of burning them.
He had a basket of dry goods, a bundle of fish wrapped tight, and the weight of future planning sitting behind his ribs.
He turned back toward the inn.
That was when he saw them.
Not in a dramatic block. Not lined up like a raid.
Just… present.
Three men loitered near the Winking Widow's front step like they'd always been there. Coats damp, boots planted too wide, casual faces that didn't match their eyes.
They weren't Darric.
But they wore Darric's confidence like borrowed clothing.
As Ronan approached, one of them shifted—just enough to "accidentally" block the doorway with his shoulder.
A harmless mistake.
A polite inconvenience.
The kind meant to force you to squeeze past and feel small.
Ronan stopped a few paces away and watched them like he was studying a trap.
The man blocking the door glanced over, smirked, then looked away again like Ronan wasn't worth noticing.
Inside the inn, he could see movement through the window—Rowena at the counter, Miri carrying breakfast trays. Brann's team clustered around the staging table, gear laid out like a living diagram.
The gang boys knew that too.
That was why they were smiling.
One of them raised his voice, loud enough for the room to hear through the door.
"Nice place," he drawled. "Heard the Widow's been… busy lately."
Another chuckled. "Busy or just finally willing to work for coin?"
They laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Ronan didn't move.
He didn't flare.
He didn't give them what they wanted.
The third man stepped to the policy board nailed near the entrance and tapped it with two fingers—dirty fingers that left a faint smear.
"House code," he read aloud, mocking. "No weapons, no harassment…"
He leaned in closer and dragged his fingertip under the first rule like underlining it in filth.
"Cute," he said.
Ronan's voice came calm as stone. "Move."
The man at the doorway turned his head slowly. "What?"
Ronan took one more step forward. "Move," he repeated.
The man's smirk widened. "We're just standing."
Ronan nodded. "Then stand somewhere else."
The man made a show of looking around, as if confused by the concept of sidewalks. "You want us to… what, inn man? You gonna tell us the rules too?"
Ronan's gaze didn't flicker. "Eat or leave."
That landed oddly in the air—because it wasn't a threat. It wasn't a plea. It was a simple statement of what the inn was for.
The men blinked, thrown off by how little emotion he gave them.
The one smearing the board scoffed. "We're not hungry."
Ronan nodded once. "Then leave."
The doorway man leaned closer, voice lowering. "Or what?"
Ronan didn't answer with "or else." He didn't escalate.
He stepped forward anyway.
Not pushing. Not shoving.
Just… entering.
He moved past the doorway man like the man wasn't a wall at all. The gang boy had to choose: physically block him and start something in front of A-ranks, or step aside and pretend it wasn't losing.
He stepped aside.
Ronan entered the Winking Widow with his market basket, boots firm on the floor, and set the goods down behind the counter with controlled calm.
Rowena looked up instantly, eyes tightening with recognition. She'd seen that kind of smile on men before.
Trouble.
Miri froze mid-step, tray wobbling slightly. Ronan's steady presence kept it from falling.
Brann's head turned from the staging table, gaze sharpening.
The gang boys didn't come fully inside. They hovered at the threshold, technically not breaking the rules yet. Their eyes flicked to Brann's team—then away, as if they hadn't noticed the predators in the room.
They stayed polite.
They stayed careful.
They wanted Ronan to bark. To shove. To swing.
They wanted a scene.
Ronan didn't give them one.
He met their eyes across the room, voice calm and ordinary. "You heard me," he said. "Eat or leave."
The doorway man's smirk tightened. "We'll talk to the owner later."
Ronan's reply was mild. "You're talking to the floor manager now."
One of them laughed as if that was ridiculous, then turned and stepped out into the street.
The others followed, slow and casual, like nothing had happened.
But Ronan watched through the window as they didn't go far.
They started small.
A delivery boy—one of Marla's runners—came down the lane with a crate balanced on his shoulder. One gang boy "accidentally" bumped him.
The crate toppled.
Dry goods scattered in the wet dirt. A jar cracked.
The runner yelped, scrambling to gather what he could.
The gang boy laughed. "Careful, kid. Roads are slippery."
Ronan's jaw tightened, but he didn't move.
Not yet.
A fisherman passing by spat near the inn's signpost—too close, deliberate. Another gang boy leaned against a neighboring store's awning and barked something about "street fees," voice loud enough to embarrass the merchant in front of customers.
The merchant tried to protest.
The gang boy took an apple from the stall and bit into it anyway, not paying.
Public humiliation. Social pressure. Little cuts that made you bleed slowly.
Rowena watched through the window, hands clenched under the counter. "They're—"
"I know," Ronan said quietly.
Brann appeared at Ronan's shoulder like a storm cloud deciding where to rain.
Brann's eyes were on the street. His voice was low, dangerous. "I can crush them."
Ronan didn't look at Brann. "Not yet."
Brann's brows lifted. "Not yet?"
Ronan's voice stayed calm. "If we swing too early, they become martyrs."
Brann scoffed. "Martyrs? They're rats."
Ronan glanced at him. "Rats multiply when you hit them in the dark. Wolves learn when they bleed in public."
Brann frowned, not fully convinced.
Ronan continued, watching the street. "They want a reaction. A fight. A reason to say the inn started it. A reason to rally locals who hate outsiders." His gaze flicked to Brann's team. "And to paint you as an occupying force."
Brann's jaw tightened. He understood politics even if he preferred axes. "So what's the play?"
Ronan's eyes stayed on the gang boys as they harassed another stall—taking a strip of dried fish without paying, laughing when the vendor protested.
"The play," Ronan said, "is to let the village see who's doing the bleeding."
As if on cue, a couple locals started muttering. Not at Ronan. Not at Brann.
At the gang.
"Again?" someone hissed.
"Those bastards," another muttered. "Always when the watch is lazy."
The resentment was old. It just needed a spark.
Ronan didn't strike.
He let them earn hatred the honest way.
By being themselves.
Rowena's voice came tight. "But they'll keep doing it."
"Yes," Ronan said.
Brann's mouth twisted. "And if they come back tonight?"
Ronan's gaze hardened. "Then we respond on our terms."
Brann watched Ronan for a long beat, then grunted. "You're really an innkeeper now. Planning fights like you're cooking stew—slow, patient, waiting for the right heat."
Ronan didn't smile, but the comparison wasn't wrong.
That night, the inn stayed full later than usual.
Not because the weather improved.
Because people wanted to be inside the place that felt safer. The hearth's warmth drew them in, and Brann's presence anchored them like a stone in a current.
Ronan locked doors. Checked windows. Made sure the policy board was clean again—he wiped off the smear and left the rules stark and visible.
When the last patron finally stumbled home and the inn settled into quiet, Ronan banked the hearth and went upstairs for a brief rest.
He didn't sleep deeply.
He rarely did anymore.
Near midnight, a sound woke him—not loud, just… wrong. A faint scrape outside, like wood protesting.
Ronan was on his feet before thought caught up.
He moved down the stairs quietly, boots silent on familiar boards. He unlatched the front door just enough to look out.
Mist rolled through the lane. Lantern light wavered. No one stood there.
But the inn's sign—hanging above the doorway—caught his eye.
Someone had carved into it.
Not deep enough to break it. Not enough to make it fall.
Just enough to leave a message.
A crude mark scratched into the wood—an ugly symbol like a hooked claw, accompanied by a gouged line that cut across the painted gull.
We can touch you anytime.
Ronan stared at the mark for a long moment, breath steady.
This wasn't violence.
It was permission.
A reminder that they could reach the inn whenever they wanted.
He closed the door slowly, latched it, then turned.
Rowena stood at the bottom of the stairs, hair loose, face pale. She must've heard him.
Her voice trembled. "What is it?"
Ronan didn't soften the truth. He pointed upward. "They left a message."
Rowena swallowed hard. "They're not stopping."
Ronan's gaze hardened, the raid captain returning under the innkeeper's skin. "No," he said.
He looked at the hearth—warm embers breathing quietly.
He looked at the policy board—rules in chalk, fragile but clear.
He looked at the stairwell leading deeper into the inn, where secrets waited under the floor.
And he realized the gang wasn't testing whether the Winking Widow could feed people anymore.
They were testing whether it could be owned.
Ronan's voice came low, steady. "Then we don't stop either."