Ronan found Tessa where she always was—behind the front counter like the guild had grown around her, braid neat, sleeves rolled, eyes already counting the day's chaos before it happened.
She looked up the instant he stepped into the main hall.
"You survived Helena," she said, voice dry. "Shocking."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "Barely."
Tessa's gaze flicked past him toward the ramp corridor, like she could see through stone and doors. "Did you—"
He didn't make her ask.
"I returned the badge," Ronan said.
For a heartbeat, her face forgot how to be professional. The humor drained out, leaving something raw behind her eyes.
"Oh," she said, too soft. Then she cleared her throat hard enough to scrape it. "So it's real."
"It's real," Ronan confirmed.
Tessa's fingers tightened around the quill she'd been holding. "And?"
"And I told her about Harrow. Gave her the report. She'll pull strings," Ronan said. He paused, then added, "That part's done."
Tessa made a sound like she wanted to argue with the universe itself. She didn't. She couldn't. She just leaned forward slightly, elbows on the counter.
"You're leaving," she said, and it wasn't a question.
"I'm stepping away," Ronan corrected. "Not vanishing."
Tessa's mouth pressed into a line. It was an expression he'd seen on her when recruits died and she had to stamp their paperwork anyway. Angry grief. Paperwork grief.
Ronan exhaled. "Tessa… thank you."
She blinked, startled.
"For what?" she snapped, too quick.
"For all of it," Ronan said simply. "For keeping things running. For catching messages. For making sure my team got paid on time. For pretending you weren't worried when I came back half-dead."
Her throat bobbed. She looked down at the counter like it had suddenly become fascinating.
"I was never worried," she muttered. "You're annoying. Annoying people live forever."
Ronan let the silence sit for a moment, gentle as he could manage. "I don't know what I'm doing next," he said. "But I'll still be around Greyhaven for a while."
Tessa lifted her eyes again. There was relief there, small and stubborn, like a candle protected by a cupped hand.
"You better," she said, voice rough. "I'm not reassigning your file to the 'dead' shelf because you felt dramatic."
Ronan huffed. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Tessa took a breath, straightened, and forced her clerk-mask back into place. "Pantheon?" she asked, like she'd guessed the next step the moment he said "retire."
Ronan nodded. "Pantheon."
She hesitated, then slid a small pouch across the counter. "Travel tokens. Civic scrip. For offerings."
Ronan frowned. "Tessa—"
"Shut up," she said, eyes sharp. "Consider it… guild gratitude. Not mine."
He should've refused. He didn't. He just covered the pouch with his hand and gave her a single, quiet nod.
"Thanks," he said again, softer.
Tessa looked away first, because of course she did. "Go," she muttered. "Before I start assigning you escort duty out of spite."
Ronan turned, boots echoing on stone, and walked out of the guildhall into Greyhaven's cold daylight.
The Pantheon sat on a rise above the city's busiest streets, a cluster of old stone buildings joined by covered walkways and courtyards. It wasn't a single temple; it was four, braided together around a central chamber like fingers around a shared secret. Banners marked each Court—War's crimson, Civic's pale green, Wild's deep violet, Craft's iron-grey—fluttering in the wind.
Ronan climbed the steps slowly, not from fatigue this time, but from the weight of the choice. Every step felt like a page turning.
A priestess met him beneath the archway.
She was older than most, hair silvered and braided in a crown, robes layered with subtle stitching in all four colors. Her face held the calm of someone who'd watched thousands of lives pivot in this place and never pretended it didn't matter.
"Ronan Kerr," she said, voice warm. "Greyhaven's captain of the March raids."
"Former," Ronan replied.
Her eyes sharpened gently. "So the rumor reached even our walls."
He didn't deny it. "I retired. I'm here to… change my blessing."
The priestess studied him a moment longer, then nodded as if she'd already known the outcome the moment he spoke.
"Come," she said.
She guided him through quiet corridors where the air smelled of incense and old stone. The sounds of the city faded behind thick walls. Each step deeper into the Pantheon felt like walking away from steel and blood, and toward something older.
They reached a door banded in bronze.
The priestess pressed her palm to a carved sigil. The metal warmed beneath her skin. A low hum vibrated through the stone, and the door swung inward.
Inside was the central chamber.
It was circular, high-ceilinged, lit by a ring of skylights that spilled pale daylight down onto the floor like water. In the four cardinal directions stood statues—towering, impossibly detailed, each a different presence carved into permanence.
War Court: a massive figure with a broad chest and a blunt, unyielding face, arms crossed over a sword planted in the floor. Everything about him screamed strength and demand.
Civic Court: a graceful goddess with gentle eyes and a hand extended as if offering shelter; vines and carved leaves climbed her pedestal. Her expression was calm in a way that made you want to kneel even if you hated kneeling.
Wild Court: a beautiful demoness—horned, smiling, one hand on her hip, the other holding a chalice tilted like she might spill temptation on the floor just to watch you scramble.
Craft Court: an old man with a beard like hammered wire, one hand holding a tool, the other a ledger; his gaze was sharp as a smith's hammer, as if he could see flaws inside your bones.
In the center of the chamber, set into the floor, was a circular plate of polished stone. Above it floated a thin slab of dark-steel etched with shifting runes—the Blessing Stone.
The priestess gestured. "Stand in the middle," she said. "Speak your truth. The Courts will hear. Whatever happens… do not resist it."
Ronan stepped onto the central plate.
The stone beneath his boots felt strangely warm, like a hearth that remembered hands.
He looked up at the statues.
For a moment, he felt very small.
Then he forced his breath steady, bowed his head, and spoke.
"I am Ronan Kerr," he said, voice echoing faintly. "War Court blessed. Raid captain of Greyhaven. I have served. I have bled. I have kept others alive. And now… I ask to be released."
The air shifted.
Not wind. Something deeper. Like the world inhaled.
Light spilled down from the skylights and pooled around his feet, creeping up his legs like rising water. The chamber blurred at the edges. The statues seemed to stretch taller, their carved faces turning—watching.
Ronan's heartbeat slowed.
Then the floor vanished.
His consciousness stepped out of his body like a man stepping out of armor.
He stood—still himself, but not in flesh—on a platform of pale light in a vast emptiness.
In front of him, the four gods were no longer statues.
They were presence.
War Court stood like a mountain of muscle and noise, broad shoulders, thick arms, eyes bright with battle hunger. He grinned, teeth like a predator.
Civic Court—Elaria Silverbough—stood radiant and calm, her hair like sunlight through leaves, eyes soft but unwavering. She looked at Ronan as if she could see every tired bone in him.
Wild Court lounged with shameless ease, violet eyes sparkling, lips curved. Her form was beautiful in a way that made a man want to both run and kneel.
Craft Court leaned on an invisible staff, old and sharp, gaze measuring Ronan like a piece of metal being tested for cracks.
"Well," Wild Court purred first, voice honeyed and wicked. "Look who dragged himself in. The March's famous captain. Hello, handsome."
Ronan didn't react. He'd survived worse than flirtation.
War Court laughed, booming. "He smells like steel! Good. Strong." He eyed Ronan like a promising recruit. "Why are you here, warrior? Come back to ask for more battle?"
"I'm here to retire," Ronan said, steady. "And change."
War Court's grin faltered—then he barked a laugh like the concept was absurd. "Retire? Hah! Bodies rest when they break. But if you insist…" His gaze sharpened, abruptly serious. "My blessing was given for war. You no longer wish to serve it."
He slapped a massive hand against his own chest. The sound was like a drum.
"Fine," War Court said. "I pull it back. Choose another, then. If your muscles are done, at least keep your brain strong."
Ronan felt something unclasp in his soul—like a buckle unfastened. A weight he'd carried for years eased, leaving behind a strange emptiness and relief.
The Blessing Stone floated forward. Runes flickered across it, forming a list that hovered before Ronan's eyes like engraved options on invisible steel.
War Captain.
Dungeon Marshal.
Strike Leader.
Warden.
Templar.
Quartermaster.
Healer's Hand.
The list shifted, options dissolving and reforming as the Courts assessed him.
Wild Court leaned closer, breath warm against nothing. "You could take mine," she teased, fingers trailing along his jaw without touching. "Sea-blooded oath. Demon's charm. A vow that makes the world tremble when you smile."
Craft Court clicked his tongue. "She would break him."
Wild Court pouted. "He looks durable."
Elaria's gaze moved to Wild Court—gentle, but firm. "He is not yours," she said simply.
Wild Court sighed theatrically, then grinned again. "Fine. I can't bless him anyway." She tilted her head, eyes glittering. "But I can enjoy watching."
Craft Court stepped closer, the air around him smelling faintly of smoke and metal. "He has discipline," the old man said. "Planning. Logistics. He understands systems without needing to be told."
Runes on the Blessing Stone flashed. Several options brightened—Steward, Quartermaster, Forgeward—then dimmed as if reconsidered.
Elaria studied Ronan the longest.
Her eyes weren't judging him. They were… weighing him. Like she was holding his exhaustion in her palm and deciding what to do with it.
The list on the stone began to shrink.
War Captain—gone.
Dungeon Marshal—gone.
Strike Leader—gone.
Ronan's brows drew together. "What—"
"The choices refine," Craft Court said, voice dry. "Suitability. Need. Fate. Call it what you like."
The list kept dropping.
Warden.
Steward.
Healer's Hand.
Sanctuary Keeper.
One by one, they flickered out.
Ronan's pulse kicked, a familiar tension—like being in a tunnel when the air changed. Except this time it wasn't a monster.
It was the world narrowing.
Until there was only one line left, carved small at the very bottom, almost as if it hadn't been there a moment ago.
Innkeeper.
Ronan stared.
He blinked, like the word might rearrange itself into something that made sense.
"Innkeeper?" he repeated.
Wild Court burst into laughter, delighted. "Oh, that's adorable. The great captain, pouring ale and making beds."
War Court snorted, unimpressed. "That's not even a real fight."
Craft Court's brows lifted, interest sharpening. "Hmph. That's… unexpected."
Elaria's voice was quiet, steady, and impossibly sure.
"There is a shortage," she said. "Not of warriors. Not of smiths. Not of mouths eager to shout courage."
She stepped closer. The scent of green leaves and clean rain surrounded her.
"There is a shortage of places that hold," Elaria continued. "Places that endure. Places that become shelter when the world becomes teeth."
Ronan's throat tightened. He thought of the camp. The dead. The lantern light. The constant moving from one disaster to the next with no safe ground beneath it.
Elaria's gaze softened. "You have spent years keeping others alive in the worst places," she said. "You prepare. You notice. You warn. You lead without needing applause."
She lifted one hand, and the word Innkeeper glowed brighter.
"This blessing is not small," she said. "It is… unfashionable. Underchosen. Underbuilt. But it is necessary."
Ronan stared at the word.
It felt ridiculous.
And… it felt like a hearth.
He inhaled.
Then he nodded once.
"I accept," Ronan said.
The Blessing Stone flared.
Light flooded him—warm, heavy, steady—like a door closing against winter. His consciousness rocked, then began to fall backward, fading like a candle blown out.
As he sank away, he heard the gods' voices like echoes through water.
Craft Court muttered, "Elaria… that option wasn't on the stone a breath ago."
Wild Court hummed, amused. "Did you just add it? Cheater."
Elaria's voice was calm, almost smiling. "I merely… guided what was possible."
War Court yawned, already bored. "As long as he keeps strong. Brain muscle counts."
Craft Court's tone sharpened. "Why place it at the bottom like a discarded tool?"
Elaria's reply came like a whisper of leaves.
"Because sometimes," she said, "the smallest doors open into the largest wars."
Ronan fell fully out of the divine light.
Back in the chamber, his body swayed on the central plate.
The priestess was there instantly, steadying him with practiced hands.
Ronan's eyes fluttered open.
His chest felt… different. Not lighter, exactly. More anchored. Like something invisible had been fastened to his ribs.
The priestess watched him closely. "Did you see?" she asked softly.
Ronan swallowed, voice hoarse. "Yes."
"What did they give you?"
Ronan looked up at the Civic statue—Elaria Silverbough—her carved hand still extended as if offering shelter.
His mouth twitched with something that might have been disbelief, or might have been the first hint of peace he'd felt in years.
"Innkeeper," Ronan said.
The priestess's eyes widened—just a little—then she bowed her head as if acknowledging a weighty truth.
"Then the path has chosen you," she whispered.
Ronan stared at the statue, the word still burning behind his eyes.
Innkeeper.
He didn't know what that meant yet.
But for the first time in a long time, the thought of tomorrow didn't taste like blood.