Night in Gullwatch didn't fall.
It crept.
The sea mist thickened after sunset, swallowing the lane until the Winking Widow's windows were the only warm squares of light left on the street. The inn emptied in slow drips—fishermen stumbling home, travelers locking themselves into rooms, Brann's team settling upstairs with maps rolled and boots lined like soldiers.
Rowena held her smile until the last guest left the common room.
Then she sagged behind the counter like someone had finally untied the rope around her chest.
Ronan watched her from the hearth.
She tried to pretend the kicked sign didn't matter. Tried to laugh it off for Miri. Tried to call it "boys being boys" the way frontier women did when they didn't have the luxury of fear.
But when she turned away, her hands shook.
Ronan didn't call it out. He simply said, "Go sleep."
Rowena blinked at him. "You—"
"I'll handle the rest," Ronan said.
Her pride flared, predictable. "I can stay up."
Ronan's gaze held hers. "You need sleep more than you need to prove something."
Rowena's horns twitched back. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes softened, conflicted, then—finally—she nodded.
"Fine," she whispered. "But don't… don't do anything stupid."
Ronan's mouth twitched faintly. "I don't do stupid."
Rowena gave him a look that said she didn't believe him at all, then disappeared up the stairs.
Miri went next, yawning so hard her eyes watered. Ronan sent her with a firm pat on the shoulder and a promise that the doors were latched.
When the inn finally settled, Ronan didn't go upstairs.
He turned the common room into a watch post.
Not dramatic. Not heroic.
Functional.
He adjusted lantern angles first—rotating two on their hooks so shadows didn't pool near the back corridor. He banked the hearth just enough to keep heat without throwing too much glow into the windows. He moved a table subtly—creating a clear lane to the backdoor, removing anything that would trip him in a rush.
Then he checked the backdoor.
He'd already reinforced the latch. Tonight he added a bar.
A thick length of wood wedged into iron brackets—simple, solid, ugly. He tested it twice until the door didn't budge even when he threw his shoulder into it.
Kitchen tools came next.
Not swords on walls. Not bravado.
Tools staged like weapons because anything in a kitchen could be a weapon if you weren't sentimental about it.
A heavy cast pan within reach. A poker by the hearth. A bucket of water filled and set near the stove—useful for fire, useful for eyes. A cleaver placed on the prep table, not as threat, but as fact.
Ronan moved through it all with a quiet focus that reminded him of raid nights before a boss pull. You didn't sleep. You didn't boast. You made sure everyone else could.
A boot thumped on the stairs.
Brann appeared, shirt half-laced again, hair still wild from sleep. He carried his axe now without oilcloth. His eyes were awake even if his grin was lazy.
"You're really doing this," Brann said, voice low so it wouldn't carry upstairs.
Ronan didn't look up from the backdoor bar. "Yes."
Brann wandered into the common room like he was inspecting a camp. "You think they'll come tonight?"
Ronan tested the bar one last time. "If they're smart, no."
Brann snorted. "They're street boys."
Ronan's gaze slid to him. "Street boys who are escalating."
Brann's grin faded into something sharper. "Fair."
He leaned against a post, arms folded. "I'll sit. Half amused, half serious. Like watching a kid try to punch a bear."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "You're the bear."
Brann's grin returned. "Exactly."
A third presence joined them without noise.
Kael.
The lean scout stepped out of the shadows near the stairwell like he'd always been there. No armor clink. No heavy boots. Just calm eyes and a knife at his hip.
"I couldn't sleep," Kael said casually.
Brann barked a laugh. "He says that like it's not because he enjoys this."
Kael didn't deny it. He simply leaned near the window, gaze angled toward the alley behind the inn.
Predatory calm.
Ronan didn't comment. He was glad for the extra eyes.
They waited.
Minutes passed. The hearth hissed softly. Wind whispered at the shutters.
Then Kael's head tilted, a fraction.
Ronan felt it too—an absence in the night where there should've been nothing. A pressure. A shift.
Brann's hand tightened on his axe.
Soft steps. Not in the front lane.
Behind.
Ronan didn't speak. He simply moved—quiet as he could be, crossing toward the back corridor.
Kael ghosted after him. Brann followed with heavier weight, but he knew how to move when it mattered.
At the backdoor, the bar held.
But something scraped against the outer wood.
A tool.
Someone testing.
Ronan raised two fingers—wait—then leaned close to the door, listening.
Whispered voices. Five, maybe. Low and eager.
"—kick it—"
"—quiet, idiot—"
"—break the kitchen, boss said—"
Ronan exhaled through his nose.
They weren't here to take coin.
They were here to break the inn's spine.
Ronan flicked his gaze to Kael. Kael's expression didn't change, but his knife was already in his hand.
Brann's grin showed teeth. "Finally," he breathed.
Ronan didn't answer. He reached up and turned the lantern hook slightly so it lit the corridor without spilling out the crack under the door.
Then he unhooked the bar.
Not fully. Just enough to move it.
The scraping outside intensified.
They thought they were winning.
Ronan's voice came low, barely a breath. "On my signal."
Brann nodded once.
Kael didn't nod. He was already coiled.
The backdoor shuddered.
A shoulder hit it. Then another.
The latch groaned.
Ronan let it.
He let them commit.
Then, when the wood flexed, he yanked the bar free, stepped aside, and kicked the door open with brutal timing.
Cold mist poured in.
So did five men.
They stumbled forward, expecting resistance at the door, not an empty space and a sudden opening that stole their balance. Their eyes widened at lantern light.
They had clubs. A short blade. One carried a small hammer like he intended to smash jars and hinges.
"—WHAT—"
Brann moved first.
Not with a shouted threat.
With a controlled explosion.
He stepped into the first thug and hit him with the haft of his axe like swatting a fly with a tree trunk. The man lifted off his feet and slammed into the corridor wall, skull cracking with a wet sound.
Ronan didn't watch. He took the second thug before the man could recover balance—one hand gripping the collar, the other driving a knee into the gut. Air burst out. The thug folded. Ronan slammed his head into the doorframe once.
The body went limp.
Kael was already on the third.
He didn't swing. He slipped.
A knife flashed once, clean and fast, opening the man's throat with minimal motion. Kael stepped aside so the blood didn't splash his boots.
The fourth thug tried to rush past toward the kitchen, shouting, "BREAK IT—!"
Ronan grabbed the cast pan from the shelf and brought it down on the man's wrist.
Bone popped.
The club clattered to the floor.
Ronan followed with an elbow to the jaw that turned the thug's head sideways and shut him down.
The fifth thug froze.
Not because he was brave.
Because he realized he'd walked into a kill box.
He tried to back out the door.
Brann caught him with one step and slammed him against the wall, axe head hovering inches from his face.
"Don't," Brann rumbled, voice almost cheerful.
The thug's eyes rolled white with panic.
They'd come in expecting a frightened widow, a tired innkeeper, maybe a girl screaming.
Instead they'd found a raid captain, an A-rank, and a scout who moved like a knife thought.
The corridor stank of blood and wet wool.
Three bodies already lay still. A fourth twitched, barely conscious.
Ronan looked down at the mess and felt irritation flare—not at the violence, but at the damage.
Behind them, a chair had been knocked over. A lantern hook hung crooked. A smear of mud streaked the floorboards.
"Careful," Ronan snapped, eyes flicking to Brann.
Brann glanced at the cracked wall where the first thug had hit and laughed quietly. "He shouldn't have stood there."
Ronan's jaw clenched. "You just bought me repairs."
Brann grinned wider. "I bought you peace."
Ronan stepped over a body and grabbed the conscious one—the fifth—by the collar. He hauled him into the kitchen where the light was better and shoved him down onto a chair.
Kael followed, wiping his blade on a rag with meticulous calm.
Brann leaned on the counter like he was about to enjoy a drink.
Ronan shoved the thug's face forward. "Name."
The thug shook his head violently, panting. "I—I don't—"
Ronan slapped the table hard enough to make the jars rattle. Not rage. Command.
The thug flinched so hard his chair legs squealed.
"Name," Ronan repeated, voice low.
"R-Rell," the thug stammered.
Ronan nodded. "Rell. Good. Now tell me who sent you."
Rell's eyes darted wildly. "I can't—"
Brann leaned closer, smile friendly in a way that promised brutality. "You can."
Rell swallowed, throat bobbing. "Boss," he whispered.
Ronan's gaze sharpened. "Which boss."
Rell hesitated. Kael's knife tip rested lightly on the table near Rell's fingers—an idle gesture, but the message was clear: I can remove parts of you without effort.
Rell broke.
"Darric," he blurted. "Darric sent us!"
Ronan's chest tightened. A name. Finally. The root had a shape.
"Where," Ronan said.
Rell shook his head again, tears starting. "Please—"
Ronan leaned in. "You came here to break an inn. To scare a woman in her own home." His voice went colder. "You don't get to beg."
Rell's shoulders shook. He sobbed once, ugly. "Warehouse," he gasped. "By the old net sheds. The one with the green door. They keep watch on the roof—"
Ronan nodded, locking the location into his mind like coordinates on a map.
Brann's grin went sharp. "Now we're talking."
Ronan straightened slowly, eyes still on Rell. "How many?"
Rell hiccuped. "I—I don't know. A lot. He's got… got boys. And— and a paper man sometimes—"
Ronan's eyes narrowed.
Paper again.
He filed it away.
Then he stepped back and exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his mind from racing upstairs to Rowena sleeping unaware above blood.
Brann clapped Ronan on the shoulder, too hard. "You see? Easy."
Ronan gave him a look. "You broke my corridor."
Brann laughed louder. "I broke your problem."
Ronan turned to Kael. "Tie him up. Gag him. Put him in the storage room."
Kael nodded once, already moving with rope like it had appeared from nowhere.
As Kael dragged Rell away, he wiped his blade again, expression calm, almost bored.
Then he looked back at Ronan over his shoulder and said casually—like discussing the weather—
"If we don't cut the root, they'll keep coming."
Ronan's eyes hardened. "Just smarter," Kael finished.
Brann's grin widened with anticipation.
And somewhere upstairs, the Winking Widow's hearth breathed low and steady, as if the inn itself had heard the name and understood what had to happen next.