Ronan woke before the inn did.
That wasn't unusual—his body had spent too many years waking to danger and counting exits before breakfast—but here the sounds were different. No distant screams. No steel on stone. Just the low crackle of the hearth downstairs and the steady hush of the sea wind worrying the window frame.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
A floorboard creaked somewhere below. Not the loose one by the kitchen door—this was a lighter step, careful, like someone trying not to wake sleeping guests.
Rowena.
Ronan sat up, rolled his shoulders, and let out a slow breath. His joints still complained, but the ache had changed flavor since the Pantheon. Less "I'm breaking" and more "I'm carrying something."
He didn't fully understand it yet, but he could feel the inn around him like a faint pressure—an awareness at the edges of his mind. The hearth's warmth wasn't just heat; it was presence. The building wasn't just wood and nails; it was a shape in the world that wanted to be held together.
Innkeeper.
He dressed quickly, splashed water on his face, and went downstairs.
The dining room was dim, lanterns turned low. A few patrons still slept at tables with their heads on their arms, empty mugs beside them. The air carried yesterday's stew, spilled ale, damp wool drying too slowly.
Rowena stood behind the counter, hair a wild halo around her horns, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Her shirt—white linen, practical—was half-unbuttoned at the throat like she'd dressed in a hurry and lost the fight halfway through. She blinked at him like her brain needed a second to remember she'd hired help.
"Oh—" she said, voice rough with sleep. "Morning."
"Morning," Ronan replied.
Rowena fumbled with the buttons, cheeks warming as she realized. "I—sorry. I was just—" She waved a hand helplessly. "Getting water. Checking the fire. The bread—"
Ronan didn't look away pointedly; he just kept his gaze steady and neutral, the way he would with a wounded teammate who didn't need pity.
"You were working," he said simply.
Rowena's shoulders sank an inch, relief and embarrassment tangled together. "Always," she muttered, then forced a smile. "Did you sleep okay? The wind gets loud."
"Fine," Ronan said. "I want to start today with an audit."
Rowena froze. "An… audit?"
Ronan nodded. "Kitchen. Pantry. Cellar. Rooms. Backdoor. Alley. The floorboard that tried to assassinate you. I want to see what we're actually dealing with."
Rowena's horns twitched. "That sounds…" she searched for a polite word, "…serious."
"It is," Ronan said. "But I'm asking first. It's your place."
Rowena stared at him, still waking up, still trying to decide if she should be offended or grateful.
Then she exhaled and nodded. "Yes. Okay. Please. I—please do." She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Just… don't judge."
Ronan's gaze softened a fraction. "I'm not here to judge. I'm here to stop this place from collapsing."
Rowena swallowed. "Right."
Ronan moved toward the kitchen door. As he stepped, something in him tightened—not pain, not fear. Awareness. A subtle tug that drew his attention to the edge of the hearth's warmth.
He paused, eyes narrowing.
The inn felt… uneven. Like a rope pulled too tight on one side. Like the building was leaning on one exhausted woman and resenting it.
He pushed through the door.
The kitchen was small, cramped by necessity. Pots stacked, knives hung, a cutting board scarred by years of hurried meals. A barrel of water sat in the corner, lid half-open. The smell of herbs and old grease clung to the walls.
Ronan took a slow breath.
And the world… spoke.
Not with words. With certainty.
His vision didn't change, not visibly, but his mind tagged things like a veteran reading a battlefield:
Sour.A sack of root vegetables—one corner soft, hidden rot spreading.
Unsafe.Raw fish stored above bread.
Stale.A jar of spice left unsealed, moisture clumping it into useless paste.
Dirty water.The barrel's rim had a faint green smear; the smell was wrong. Not poison, but contamination—the kind that made bellies sick and weakened people quietly.
Ronan's jaw tightened. "How long has that water been sitting?"
Rowena hovered in the doorway, rubbing her arms as if she could warm herself by effort alone. "I… I refill it every day."
"From where?" Ronan asked.
"The pump outside," Rowena said quickly. "Or the well when the pump freezes."
Ronan walked to the barrel, dipped a finger, tasted the tiniest bit. His tongue prickled with the wrongness.
"It's not clean," he said.
Rowena's face went pale. "What?"
"It's not deadly," Ronan corrected, calm. "But it's not clean. We'll boil it. We'll scrub the barrel. And we'll check your source."
Rowena stared at the barrel like it had betrayed her. "I didn't know."
"I know," Ronan said, and there was no accusation in it.
He moved methodically—because that was how you survived messes.
He checked cupboards, found flour stored too close to damp wood. He found meat brined in a bucket that had hairline cracks. He found a pantry shelf sagging under weight because someone had nailed it with cheap iron. He saw it all, and his new blessing kept nudging his attention to the worst points first like invisible fingers saying here, here, this will kill you eventually.
Rowena followed him, hands twisting in her apron. "It's bad," she whispered.
"It's fixable," Ronan said. "But you've been doing this alone."
Rowena let out a thin laugh. "Yes."
Ronan opened a cupboard and found a broom with bristles worn almost flat. He held it up slightly.
Rowena flushed. "I keep meaning to buy a new one."
"Meaning doesn't stop dirt," Ronan said, then immediately softened his tone. "You've been firefighting. Not building."
Rowena's gaze flicked to him. "Firefighting?"
Ronan glanced around the cramped kitchen. "You're cooking. You're serving. You're cleaning. You're accounting. You're repairing. You're handling drunks. You're doing security by yourself because there's no one else."
Rowena's eyes dropped. "Someone has to."
Ronan stepped past her toward the dining room again. "Show me the rooms."
Upstairs, the hallway smelled of damp wool and old soap. Rowena led him down it, keys jingling weakly in her hand. She looked like she might fall asleep standing.
The first room was occupied—two traders snoring, boots still on. Ronan checked the window latch. Loose. Drafty. Easy entry if someone wanted to climb.
The second room was empty.
Rowena fumbled the key. "This one's just—"
The door opened to reveal a bed with one leg splintered and propped on stacked boards. The mattress sagged into a permanent valley.
Rowena's voice came smaller. "It broke last winter. I… I haven't had the coin to replace it."
Ronan's innkeeper sense prickled again. Unusable. Lost revenue.
"How many like this?" he asked.
Rowena hesitated. "Three."
Ronan closed the door gently. He didn't let his expression harden.
Three rooms empty meant three streams of coin gone. In a place already drowning, that was a slow execution.
They checked the backstairs next—narrow, creaky, leading to a backdoor that opened into a small alley between the inn and a storage shed. Wind funneled through it, carrying brine and the faint stink of fish guts.
Ronan crouched by the backdoor.
The latch was old. The wood around the hinge was soft. Someone had tried to reinforce it with a nail that had bent uselessly. The lock would keep out drunks. It would not keep out a man who wanted in.
Rowena's voice came uncertain. "We… don't get much trouble."
"You will," Ronan said. Not as a threat. As a fact.
Rowena's horns twitched, and she hugged herself tighter. "Because of the gate?"
"Because of traffic," Ronan replied. "Because of desperation. Because of debt. Trouble smells weakness."
Rowena flinched like the word debt was a slap.
Ronan stood and dusted his hands. "Now," he said, "I want to see your ledger."
Rowena stopped breathing.
It was subtle. Just a tiny stillness in her chest. But Ronan caught it the way he caught a scout's hesitation before a trap.
"My ledger?" Rowena echoed.
"Yes," Ronan said, steady. "All of it. Income, expenses, tabs, loans. I can't stabilize anything if I don't know what's pulling the inn underwater."
Rowena's eyes darted away. Shame flushed up her neck. Fear sat behind it like a second shadow.
"It's… messy," she whispered.
"I've seen messy," Ronan said.
Rowena's mouth trembled. "It's embarrassing."
Ronan held her gaze. "Rowena. If you're drowning, hiding the water doesn't help."
Her horns tipped back. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the floorboards.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
Then she turned sharply, almost stumbling, and hurried back downstairs without a word.
Ronan followed at a slower pace.
At the counter, Rowena crouched and pulled out a small lockbox from beneath a loose plank—clearly an improvised hiding place. Her fingers shook as she found the key on a chain around her neck.
Click.
The box opened.
Inside were papers, a few coins, and a thick notebook with a stained cover.
Rowena lifted it like it weighed more than iron.
She held it out to Ronan without looking up. "Don't… don't laugh," she said, voice tight.
Ronan took it carefully. "I won't."
He flipped it open.
The writing was neat at the start—careful columns, tidy sums. Then, as months progressed, the ink grew more frantic. Notes crowded margins. Figures crossed out and rewritten. Payments delayed. Promises made to suppliers.
Ronan's innkeeper sense hummed, not magical now but practical. Patterns emerged fast.
He turned a page.
Then another.
And his stomach tightened.
Three debts. Separate. Layered. Like nets stacked over a sinking boat.
Supplier tabs — food, ale, lamp oil, linens. Names Ronan didn't recognize, amounts that had started small and grown into something ugly.
City tax — smaller than Greyhaven's, as expected. Frontier villages got waivers and soft formal fees, but the paper trail was still there. A "token tax" that had become a choke when combined with everything else.
And then—
Ronan's eyes stopped on a contract sheet folded and tucked into the back, seal cracked, ink darker than the rest.
Private loan.
Not from a bank. Not from a civic grant. A personal lender.
Ronan read the clause.
His jaw went hard.
Rowena's voice came faint, almost breaking. "My husband signed that. He thought… he thought business would grow fast. He thought we'd pay it off before it mattered."
Ronan didn't look up yet. He read it again to be sure he hadn't misunderstood.
The clause wasn't just "pay or lose property."
It was worse.
It had teeth.
Rowena swallowed audibly. "If I can't pay… they can—"
Ronan closed the ledger slowly, like slamming it might make the world shatter.
He finally looked at her.
Rowena stood behind the counter with her hands clenched white on the edge, eyes wide and wet, face pulled tight with fear and shame.
Ronan's voice came low and controlled.
"Who wrote this clause?" he asked.
Rowena's lips parted, trembling.
And the sea wind outside rattled the window frame like the inn itself already knew the answer was trouble.