The Pantheon's incense still clung to Ronan's clothes when he pushed back through the Adventurers' Guild doors.
He could've gone to the Civic Hall—Innkeepers had their own registry, their own quiet network of contracts and sanctuaries, their own soft-spoken bureaucracy with sharper teeth than most people realized. But Ronan didn't know that world. Not yet.
He knew this one.
The guild smelled like stew, wet leather, and too many lives colliding in one place. It sounded like shouting and laughter and steel on stone. Familiar noise. Familiar weight.
And still—something inside him felt different. Like a hook had been set in his ribs and tied to a hearth he couldn't see.
He ignored the strange steadiness and walked straight to the front counter.
Tessa was there, of course, quill in hand, hair braided tight. She looked up and immediately narrowed her eyes.
"You're back," she said. "Already. That was fast."
Ronan leaned on the counter. "Pantheon doesn't waste time when it wants to ruin your plans."
Tessa's gaze swept him, not just for injuries this time, but for… change. "So?"
Ronan exhaled once, then said it before she could drag it out of him. "Innkeeper."
Tessa stared.
Then she blinked once. Twice. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again like she was trying to decide whether laughter or shock was more appropriate.
"Innkeeper," she repeated, as if the word might break if she said it wrong.
Ronan nodded. "Civic Court. Elaria."
Tessa's face did something complicated—relief, disbelief, a flash of something like… approval. Then she snorted. "You? Running an inn?"
"Apparently," Ronan said dryly. "The gods have a sense of humor."
Tessa leaned forward, elbows on the counter, eyes bright now with curiosity she didn't bother hiding. "Do you get… what do you get? Free drinks? A magic mop?"
"I don't know yet," Ronan admitted. "It feels like… an anchor. Like the world wants me to hold a place instead of charging into a hole in the ground."
Tessa's expression softened for a heartbeat. "That sounds like you," she muttered, then caught herself and snapped back to business. "Okay. Innkeeper. Then you'll need a posting."
"That's why I'm here," Ronan said. "Is there any job or recruitment for an inn?"
Tessa's brows rose. "You're not opening your own?"
Ronan's mouth tightened. "Not interested in buying a building, renovating it, and praying the roof doesn't collapse while I bleed money. I'd rather… step into something that already exists."
Tessa clicked her tongue like she'd expected that answer. "Fair. You're allergic to unnecessary suffering."
"I'm trying to recover," Ronan said.
Tessa rolled her eyes, then turned and began digging through the piles of paper behind the counter. The guild's request stacks were a living beast—contracts, bounties, escort jobs, dungeon alerts, supply requisitions—some neatly clipped, others shoved in like someone hoped order would happen by accident.
Tessa flipped through them quickly, lips moving as she read headings.
"Escort—no. Monster cull—no. Civic supply run—no." She paused, then frowned. "Inn… inn… gods, who even files these here…"
Ronan watched her hands. He noticed, absently, how she used her thumb to straighten the edges of a stack when it got messy. How she pressed the quill behind her ear and forgot it was there. How she cared too much for someone pretending she didn't.
She made a small sound of triumph and pulled out a thin, slightly crumpled request sheet that looked like it had been trapped between a dozen monster bounties.
"This," Tessa said, and held it up.
Ronan leaned closer.
At the top, in slightly shaky handwriting:
GULLWATCH VILLAGE — INN ASSISTANCE REQUESTTHE SOGGY GULL INNOWNER: ROWENA
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "Soggy Gull?"
Tessa's lips twitched. "Don't judge. Gullwatch is a fishing village. Everything is soggy."
Ronan took the sheet. His fingers brushed the ink as he scanned.
Location: Saltwind March frontier. Coastal village. Near new gate routes.Request: operational assistance, security management, staffing support.Payment: negotiable (and the kind of vague "negotiable" that usually meant "please don't laugh at my poverty").
Ronan lowered the sheet slightly. "You know her?"
Tessa's expression shifted—nostalgia, affection, and a faint sadness. "Yeah," she said. "Rowena."
Ronan waited. He'd learned that Tessa only offered personal stories when she trusted you enough to let you use them as leverage.
"We were in a party together," Tessa said. "Years ago. Before I decided I liked paperwork more than being eaten by monsters."
Ronan's brows rose. "You were an adventurer."
"Don't look so shocked," she snapped. "I still have a dagger."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "I'm shocked anyone let you out of the records room."
Tessa pointed the quill at him like a weapon. "Watch it."
Then her expression sobered. "Rowena and her husband built that inn when the frontier opened. Four years ago, when Gullwatch started getting traffic—hunters, raiders, caravan crews, Civic pilgrims trying to be brave."
Ronan's gaze dropped back to the request sheet. "And now?"
Tessa's voice softened, unwillingly. "Three years ago, her husband died."
Ronan looked up again. "Raid?"
Tessa nodded once. "Gate surge. He went out with a local strike team. Didn't come back." Her mouth tightened. "And he left debt. Lots of it. Loans to build the inn. Loans to pay for ward-stones. Loans to hire guards that didn't stay."
Ronan stared at the request.
A struggling inn. Frontier village. Near unstable routes. A widow with debt.
It sounded like trouble wrapped in soggy wood.
Ronan exhaled through his nose. "This is… a mess."
Tessa met his eyes. "Yes."
He waited for her to say more. She didn't, but her gaze sharpened, quiet pressure behind it.
"Is she…" Ronan began, then stopped. He didn't know what he was asking. Lonely? Safe? Desperate?
Tessa's answer was blunt. "She's kind. She's stubborn. And she's been trying to run it alone." Her eyes flicked away, then back. "Last I heard, she was barely keeping the doors open."
Ronan's jaw flexed. "Why didn't she go to the Civic Hall? Innkeepers network, sanctuary contracts—"
"She tried," Tessa said. "Civic Hall moves slow. And Gullwatch isn't important enough for their priority list. She filed this through us because we're faster and because—" Tessa hesitated, then said it anyway. "Because she knows people here. Because she knows me."
Ronan stared at the paper like it might bite him.
Tessa leaned forward. "Ronan."
He looked up.
Her voice dropped lower, losing the clerk-mask. "If you can help her… please."
The plea wasn't dramatic. It wasn't tearful. It was worse than that—quiet, controlled, the kind of request that came from someone who hated needing anything.
Ronan's chest tightened.
He could say no. He could search for another inn, another posting, something cleaner.
But Tessa was right: there weren't many inn-related jobs filed in an adventurers' guild. Most innkeepers either inherited hearths or built them with Craft Court grants. And Ronan had no interest in pouring his savings into a roof and a signboard.
He looked at the request again.
Gullwatch.
Saltwind March.
Frontier.
Trouble.
Ronan exhaled. "Fine."
Tessa's shoulders loosened, relief flashing through her face before she hid it behind a scowl.
"Fine," Ronan repeated. "I'll take it."
Tessa's mouth opened, then closed, then she muttered, "Good," like she hadn't been holding her breath.
Ronan slid the request back across the counter. "What do I need?"
Tessa pulled out a stamp and slammed it onto the paper with satisfying force. ASSIGNED. Then she reached under the counter and produced a travel packet—maps, civic tokens for the road, and a sealed letter.
"Letter of introduction," she said. "Rowena will trust it. She'll… she'll be relieved."
Ronan took the packet. "How far?"
"Two days if you push," Tessa said. "Three if you don't want to arrive half-dead."
Ronan almost smiled. "I'm trying this new thing called not arriving half-dead."
Tessa snorted. "We'll see how long it lasts."
Ronan tucked the packet into his cloak. "I'll go pack."
Tessa's eyes stayed on him. "Ronan."
He paused.
She hesitated, words tangling in her throat like she didn't know how to say them without making them ugly.
"Don't… don't get yourself killed out there," she said finally, and her voice came out rougher than usual.
Ronan met her gaze, steady. "I won't."
Tessa scoffed. "You better not. I'm not explaining to Helena why her favorite veteran turned into a corpse the moment he stopped being officially her problem."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "I'll haunt your paperwork."
Tessa shuddered dramatically. "Don't you dare."
He turned away before the warmth behind his ribs could become something else.
Upstairs, in the guild's mess quarters, Ronan's room was small—bare stone walls, a narrow bed, a chest for gear. It had never been home. It had been a place to sleep between raids.
He opened the chest and began packing with methodical efficiency.
Sword, cleaned and wrapped.
Armor pieces he'd keep—not because he expected battle, but because the March didn't care what you expected.
Clothes. A cloak. Spare boots.
The new innkeeper packet.
And a few small personal items he didn't usually bother carrying—because if he was stepping into a new life, maybe he should stop living like he could be dead tomorrow.
He paused, hand resting on the edge of the chest.
He stared at the neatly packed gear and felt a strange hollowness. Like he'd built his entire identity out of raids and routes and survival, and now he was stripping it down to essentials without knowing what he'd replace it with.
Gullwatch.
An inn.
A widow in debt.
Trouble.
Ronan closed the chest, latched it, then sat on the edge of the bed.
Before he left, he thought, he might as well have a drink with his old party.
Not to celebrate.
To say goodbye in the only language veterans allowed themselves: shared silence, bitter ale, and a few rough jokes that tasted like grief.
Ronan stood again, shoulders squaring.
If he was going to become an innkeeper, he'd start the way he started everything else—
By facing the trouble head-on.