The inn's changes didn't arrive all at once like a heroic miracle.
They crept in like tidewater.
A steadier breakfast. A cleaner kitchen. Fewer angry shouts. Bowls that came out the same every time. Rowena standing taller behind the counter because she wasn't sprinting between six jobs anymore—just one, and doing it well.
Ronan fixed the loose floorboard first. Then two bed frames upstairs, reinforcing legs with proper bracing and replacing splintered slats. He patched the backdoor hinge with fresh screws and a metal plate that made the wood stop complaining. He boiled water. He made rules. He made stations.
And because people were people, the village noticed.
Not with applause. With subtle shifts.
More fishermen drifted in at dawn instead of eating cold bread on the dock. A caravan crew that usually camped outside paid for two rooms once the beds were sturdy. The serving girl—Miri—stopped looking like she was about to cry every time someone raised their voice.
Small wins. Consistent.
But the frontier never let you forget the cost of consistency.
The first official threat arrived on a morning that felt too ordinary.
Wind off the sea. Gulls screaming. A pot of stock simmering. Rowena laughing with a table of regulars who'd started calling her "Boss" instead of "Miss" like they meant it.
The door opened.
Conversation didn't stop—Gullwatch wasn't jumpy like Greyhaven—but heads turned anyway, because newcomers carried news and trouble in equal measure.
A man stepped in wearing Civic grey.
Not armor. Not a cloak. A properly pressed coat with stitched trim that marked him as city-appointed. His boots were clean enough to be insulting. A small leather satchel hung at his side like a weapon.
And on his face—an eyepiece. A single glass lens held by a thin silver frame that clipped over one eye. It wasn't flashy. It was precise. Like the rest of him.
He paused just inside, letting his gaze sweep the room with quiet, practiced superiority.
Then he smiled.
It was the kind of smile that never meant good news.
Rowena straightened behind the counter. Her horns tilted back, subtle alarm. She wiped her hands on her apron and forced her best welcoming face into place.
"Welcome to the—" she began.
The man lifted one finger, polite and silencing. "Rowena of Gullwatch?"
Rowena's smile tightened. "Yes."
The man stepped closer, still smiling. "I am Clerk Avenholt, Civic Collection Office, Greyhaven District." His voice was mild, almost friendly. "I apologize for arriving without notice. Travel schedules are unpredictable."
Rowena's throat bobbed. "Ah. Right. Of course."
Ronan, in the kitchen doorway, watched without moving. He took in the man's posture, the satchel, the lens. Not a thug.
Worse.
A man who didn't need fists because the law hit harder.
Clerk Avenholt opened his satchel and withdrew a folded notice sealed with a stamped mark.
He didn't slap it down. He placed it gently on the counter like he was setting out a dessert menu.
"Formal notice," he said pleasantly. "Regarding outstanding municipal obligations and licensing compliance."
Rowena's fingers hovered over the paper like it was hot. "I… I've been paying what I can."
"I'm sure you have," Avenholt said with sympathetic warmth that didn't reach his eye. "However, the current status is… not compliant."
He tapped the notice with one neat finger. "Per frontier policy, your village enjoys reduced levy rates—call it a civic courtesy, a gesture of support. Unfortunately, courtesy is not the same as exemption."
Rowena's voice came smaller. "How much…?"
Avenholt unfolded the notice and turned it so she could see, but he kept his finger covering part of the sum like a magician revealing a trick.
"Pay by the stated date," he said, still calm, "or the office will proceed with standard remedies."
Rowena blinked. "Remedies?"
Avenholt's smile remained. "Seizure of stock, suspension of your operating license, and a notice posted publicly to deter commerce with a noncompliant establishment."
The room's noise shifted.
Not silence. But attention sharpened like someone had tightened a rope.
Rowena went pale. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
That kind of notice didn't just threaten coin.
It threatened survival.
Ronan stepped out of the kitchen and approached with measured calm, as if walking into a negotiation tent mid-raid.
"Good morning," Ronan said.
Avenholt's gaze flicked to him. The single lens caught light and made his eye look colder.
"And you are?" the clerk asked, still polite.
"Ronan Kerr," Ronan replied. "Acting innkeeper."
Avenholt's brows lifted slightly. "Acting?"
Ronan didn't bite. "Rowena has retained assistance. I handle operations. She handles front of house."
Rowena shot him a panicked glance—half gratitude, half fear of what he was about to do.
Avenholt studied Ronan for a moment, measuring him with that bureaucrat's instinct for power.
"You're not listed as proprietor," Avenholt said.
"No," Ronan agreed. "But I am authorized to speak for the business."
Avenholt's smile sharpened by a fraction. "Authorized by what instrument?"
Ronan reached into his coat and produced a folded packet—Rowena's contract, the inn's civic registration papers, the updated supply agreement under his name. He set them on the counter with quiet confidence.
Avenholt blinked once, surprised despite himself.
Ronan's voice stayed mild. "Let's talk about this notice."
Avenholt's tone remained sweet. "Certainly. The terms are clearly stated."
Ronan nodded. "Yes. And frontier policy is also clearly stated." He tapped one of the papers. "Reduced levy. Flexible scheduling for seasonal variance. And—if I recall correctly—an option for structured repayment when the business submits a revenue plan with supporting documentation."
Rowena stared at Ronan like he'd started speaking a foreign language.
Avenholt's smile didn't waver, but his eye sharpened behind the lens. "You are unusually informed for a newly appointed innkeeper."
Ronan met his gaze without flinching. "I've dealt with lenders. Different field, same anatomy."
Avenholt's fingers tightened slightly on the notice. "And you believe you qualify for an extension."
"I believe the inn qualifies," Ronan corrected. "We'll make a partial payment today. Good faith." He nodded toward the ledger. "And we'll submit proof of a revenue plan—menu stabilization, room repairs, supply agreements under my name, and a schedule for clearing municipal dues within a defined period."
Avenholt paused.
It wasn't a long pause.
But it was the first crack in his effortless control.
Rowena swallowed, voice trembling. "Ronan— I don't have—"
Ronan didn't look at her. "We have enough for a partial," he said quietly. "And if we don't, we sell something noncritical before we lose the whole inn."
Rowena's face tightened with shame and fear, but she didn't interrupt. She trusted him—barely—but she did.
Avenholt exhaled lightly through his nose. "A partial payment does not—"
"It does when paired with formal documentation," Ronan cut in smoothly. "You can seize stock and suspend licenses, yes. But that disrupts commerce. And disrupted commerce means you collect nothing. A structured repayment plan means your office gets paid, and the village keeps its only inn operating."
Avenholt's gaze drifted briefly across the dining room—patrons eating. Bowls. Coins on tables. Life.
He was doing math. Not money math.
Risk math.
Ronan continued, voice calm as stone. "If you'd like, I can write the plan for your file today and have Rowena sign it. You'll have formal grounds to grant an extension without it reflecting poorly on your records."
That landed.
Because clerks like Avenholt didn't care about kindness.
They cared about clean paperwork.
Avenholt's smile turned more genuine—not warm, but satisfied. "You understand incentives."
"I understand survival," Ronan said.
Avenholt folded the notice again and slipped it halfway back into his satchel, as if the threat had been temporarily reholstered.
"Very well," he said. "I can authorize an interim extension under the frontier variance clause." He lifted a finger. "However—"
Ronan waited.
"The office will require written proof of your revenue plan," Avenholt continued. "A structured schedule. And a partial payment sufficient to demonstrate intent."
Ronan nodded. "Agreed."
Rowena's breath escaped in a shaky rush.
Avenholt's gaze flicked to her, and for a moment his politeness carried a hint of pity. "You are fortunate," he said to Rowena, "to have found a man who respects paperwork."
Rowena's cheeks burned. "I— thank you."
Avenholt turned back to Ronan, and his tone sharpened into something quieter and colder.
"One more thing," he said. "Your municipal obligations are… manageable. Frontier policy is forgiving." His smile returned, thin. "Your other creditor will not be so civil."
Rowena went pale again.
Ronan's jaw tightened. "The private lender," he said.
Avenholt's lens glinted. "You already know."
Ronan didn't respond.
Avenholt adjusted his satchel strap and stepped back from the counter with an air of conclusion. He glanced toward the door.
And then—oddly—he stepped aside.
Like a man making room for someone more important.
The tavern door opened again, letting in a slice of grey daylight and the harsher smell of the sea.
A figure entered.
Not Civic grey. Not village cloth.
Fine coat. Rings on his fingers—too many, too bright. Hair slicked back. Smile wide enough to be friendly and sharp enough to cut.
He moved like he owned the floor beneath his boots.
Rowena's face drained of color so fast it was almost frightening.
Ronan didn't move, but something inside him went cold and still—the raid captain's instinct that recognized a predator before it spoke.
The man's smile widened as his eyes landed on the counter.
"Rowena," he said, voice smooth as oil. "There you are."
And the way he said her name made it sound like a claim.