Ronan didn't raise his voice.
He didn't have to. The contract did it for him.
Rowena stood behind the counter like her spine was the last beam holding the roof up. Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone pale, and her eyes kept flicking to the ledger as if the ink might crawl off the page and bite her.
Ronan held the private loan paper in two fingers and read the clause again anyway—slow, deliberate—because sometimes rage made you sloppy and sloppy got people killed.
If payment is not fulfilled within five years of signing, the debtor, Rowena of Gullwatch, shall enter bonded service to the lender until the sum is repaid in full, with interest continuing to accrue under the lender's discretion.
Bonded service.
A polite phrase for slavery.
Rowena swallowed hard. "He—he didn't think it would come to that."
Ronan's jaw flexed. "When was it signed?"
"Four years ago," Rowena whispered. "When we built the inn."
"So the five-year mark…" Ronan didn't finish the sentence.
Rowena did, voice shaking. "End of this year."
Ronan closed his eyes for a heartbeat. He pictured the calendar without wanting to. Months bleeding away. Interest piling. A lender with a clause like that wasn't a civic banker. It was a predator.
"How much is left?" Ronan asked.
Rowena flinched, then forced herself to answer. "A lot."
Ronan waited, gaze steady.
Rowena's shoulders slumped. "It's… it's still reachable," she said quickly, like she needed that to be true to keep breathing. "If I could just get ahead for once. If I could just—" Her voice broke. "If people actually paid on time."
Ronan folded the contract back and slid it into the ledger like it was something that needed to be contained. He pushed the book toward her, not to return it, but to ground her.
"Listen," Ronan said, voice low. "That debt is a blade at your throat, but the amount being reachable is good news. It means we're not fighting fate. We're fighting time."
Rowena stared at him, eyes wet. "We?"
Ronan nodded once. "We. You already accepted three months. You're getting more than three months of triage today."
Rowena's breath hitched. "I can't— I can't pay you—"
"I didn't ask about my pay," Ronan cut in gently, but firmly. "I asked about survival."
Rowena's horns twitched, and her mouth trembled into a fragile, disbelieving smile that didn't quite form.
Ronan leaned forward on the counter. "We need a plan," he said. "Not hope. Not hustle. A plan."
Rowena nodded quickly. "Okay. Yes. Plan."
Ronan straightened and looked around the inn as if it were a battlefield map.
Dining room: half-full even in the morning, a few early workers, two hunters nursing ale like it was medicine. Kitchen door: swinging in a loose hinge. Serving girl: nowhere in sight yet. Water barrel: still contaminated until boiled. Pantry: rot spots. Backdoor: weak.
Rowena herself: doing everything, breaking quietly.
Ronan set his hands on the counter like he was pinning the world in place.
"Three tiers," he said. "Today. This week. This month."
Rowena blinked. "Three… okay."
Ronan held up one finger. "Today: stop the losses. No more bleeding coin through bad habits."
Rowena's eyes widened slightly. She looked defensive already.
Ronan continued anyway. "We cut the menu. Half."
Rowena made a small sound of protest. "But people like options—"
"People like food that doesn't taste like every spice in your cupboard got into a fistfight," Ronan said flatly. "Options don't help if every option wastes ingredients and time."
Rowena's cheeks flushed. "It's not that bad."
Ronan's brow lifted.
Rowena deflated. "Fine."
"Portion control," Ronan said. "Standard bowl sizes. Standard bread cuts. No 'I feel bad so I give extra' unless we decide it on purpose."
Rowena's mouth opened—then closed. Her guilt was written all over her face.
Ronan softened his tone, but not his point. "Kindness is good. But uncontrolled kindness is how predators use you until you're empty."
Rowena swallowed. "Okay."
"Clean station," Ronan continued. "One scrubbed surface that stays scrubbed. One boiling pot for water. No raw fish above bread. No damp flour near wood. Today we make it safe."
Rowena nodded again, faster now, as if speed could make the shame go away.
"And roles," Ronan finished. "This is the most important one."
Rowena blinked. "Roles?"
"You're doing six jobs," Ronan said. "Owner, cook, server, accountant, cleaner, bouncer. That's why the inn tastes like panic."
Rowena's horns tipped back. "I have to."
"You don't," Ronan said, and the steadiness in his voice made her pause. "Not anymore."
Rowena stared at him.
Ronan held up a second finger. "This week: fix the bottlenecks. Two rooms repaired. Kitchen workflow rebuilt."
Rowena's lips parted. "The rooms…?"
"Two, first," Ronan said. "We don't need perfection. We need revenue. Two repaired beds means two more paying guests. That's coin every night."
Rowena nodded slowly, like she could feel the logic settling into her bones.
"And the kitchen workflow," Ronan continued. "We prep early. We batch. We keep ingredients organized. We stop cooking like we're fighting a fire."
Rowena swallowed. "Okay."
Ronan held up a third finger. "This month: stabilize supply and pay down one debt stream. Not all of them at once. One."
Rowena's eyes widened again. "Which one?"
"We'll decide after I see who's predatory and who's merely tired," Ronan said. "Supplier tabs can be negotiated. Taxes can be scheduled. The private loan…" His voice hardened. "That one is the blade. We build toward that."
Rowena's face went pale again, but this time there was something else beneath the fear: a spark of hope, small and stubborn.
Ronan lowered his hand. "Now," he said, "your job."
Rowena blinked. "My job?"
Ronan pointed at her—gently, but decisively. "You do one job."
Rowena's mouth opened in alarm. "I can't just—"
"You can," Ronan said.
Rowena's hands tightened on the counter. "What job?"
Ronan's gaze flicked over her—horns, smile, the warmth she gave even when she was drowning. "Front of house," he said. "Charm. Hospitality. You keep people calm, fed, and paying. You handle conversation. You handle the room."
Rowena stared at him like he'd just told her to fly.
"And you do not go into the kitchen unless the inn is on fire," Ronan added.
Rowena's face flushed. "But—"
"But nothing," Ronan said. "Your value isn't in your suffering. Your value is in your presence."
Rowena blinked hard, and a tear threatened. She wiped it away fast, angry at herself.
Ronan stepped back from the counter. "I'm taking the kitchen," he said. "Starting now."
Rowena looked panicked. "You don't know my—"
"I know kitchens," Ronan said. "And my blessing helps me spot what's bad and what's wasting us."
Rowena's eyes flicked to his chest, as if trying to see the invisible mark of the Civic Court beneath his shirt. "It really… helps?"
Ronan nodded once. "Enough."
He moved toward the kitchen door. Then paused and looked back at her.
"Rowena," he said.
She looked up, wary.
"If anyone argues about the menu changes, you blame me."
Rowena blinked. "What?"
Ronan's mouth twitched. "You're the friendly face. I'm the new man they can dislike. It's useful."
Rowena let out a shaky laugh. "That's… very strategic."
"Raid habit," Ronan said, and pushed into the kitchen.
The first thing Ronan did was boil water.
He scrubbed the barrel with ash and salt until the green smear disappeared and the wood smelled like clean sap instead of sickness. He set a pot on the hearth, fed the fire, and watched the surface begin to tremble.
Then he opened every cupboard and laid the ingredients out like a surgeon preparing for a cut.
His innkeeper sense nudged at rot, stale, contaminated, unsafe.
He sorted without mercy.
A sack of roots with hidden rot went into the discard pile. A jar of clumped spice got tossed. Fish stored wrong got moved and rebrined properly. Flour got shifted into a drier corner, sealed tight. He found three half-empty bags of different grains and combined the usable ones into one sealed container, labeled in charcoal.
He didn't make the kitchen prettier.
He made it functional.
Rowena appeared once in the doorway, wringing her hands. "Are you… throwing away food?"
"I'm throwing away sickness," Ronan replied without looking up. "If we poison someone, we lose ten customers."
Rowena flinched. "Right."
"Go," Ronan said, gentler. "Do your job."
Rowena hesitated, then nodded and retreated like a woman learning how to let someone else hold weight.
Ronan rolled his shoulders and began breakfast.
Simple. Cheap. Consistent.
Porridge—grain cooked slow with clean water, salted properly, finished with a small spoon of rendered fat for richness. Not fancy, but warm and steady. Fresh bread slices toasted on a pan, brushed with a thin smear of herb butter made from the few herbs that weren't stale. And a pot of weak tea—clean, hot, safe.
He plated it the same way each time.
Same bowl. Same portion. Same garnish.
When the first order came in—Rowena calling through the doorway, "Two porridge, one tea!"—Ronan moved like a practiced machine.
The bowls went out.
There was a pause.
Ronan waited, listening. The inn had its own rhythm, and he was learning it with his ears.
Then—murmurs.
Not complaints. Not mockery.
Surprise.
"That's… better," someone said, low.
"It tastes clean," another voice replied.
"Who cooked this?"
Rowena laughed nervously in response, her voice too bright. "New help! Eat while it's hot!"
Ronan kept working.
Bowl after bowl, consistent. Predictable. Not amazing. Not legendary.
But clean.
And in frontier villages, clean was half a miracle.
By midmorning the dining room had a different energy—less grim, less resigned. People ate without making faces. A fisherman who'd looked half-sick yesterday finished his bowl and asked for another piece of toast.
Rowena's smile looked less like armor and more like something real.
Ronan wiped his hands on a cloth, surveyed the kitchen again, and felt the smallest flicker of satisfaction.
A small win.
The first.
Near the back corner of the dining room, two patrons sat close together—travelers by their posture, not locals. Their cloaks were plain, but their boots were good, and their eyes moved too carefully.
One leaned in and murmured, "Food changed."
The other's gaze flicked toward the kitchen door, then to Ronan's shadow moving behind it. "New man."
"Better taste," the first whispered. "Consistent. Clean."
The second nodded once, small. "That matters."
"Report it?" the first asked.
The second's mouth curved faintly. "We should tell the boss."
They spoke softly enough that Rowena, laughing with a table of fishermen, didn't hear.
Ronan, in the kitchen, didn't hear either over the scrape of bowls and the hiss of boiling water.
But the inn heard.
The Winking Widow—old wood and warm hearth—held their whispers in its beams like a secret, and somewhere in the wind outside, trouble lifted its head and started paying attention.