The man with the rings didn't hurry.
He let the room feel him first—boots on worn planks, coat too fine for salt wind, the soft clink of metal as his fingers moved. His smile stayed bright as he crossed the dining room, as if he'd come to congratulate Rowena on a thriving business instead of tighten a noose.
Clerk Avenholt stood to the side near the door, posture immaculate, expression politely blank. He wasn't part of this conversation anymore. He was simply… present. A witness. A stamp with eyes.
Rowena's hands locked on the counter edge. Her horns had tipped back, tight against her hair. The color had drained from her cheeks.
Ronan stepped forward a half pace—casual, unhurried, as if he were only shifting for a better view of the hearth.
The rings man stopped at the counter and inclined his head like a gentleman.
"Rowena," he said again, voice smooth. "It's been too long."
Rowena swallowed. "I— I don't know you."
The man's smile widened, as though he enjoyed the lie. "You know of me." He placed two fingers lightly on the counter, barely touching. "Call me Vane. Silas Vane."
Ronan filed it away immediately.
"Mr. Vane," Ronan said, calm. "What can we do for you?"
Vane's eyes slid to Ronan, taking his measure. Sword. Shoulders. Stillness. Not a villager. Not a fisherman. Something else. His smile didn't falter, but it sharpened.
"And you are?" Vane asked.
"Ronan Kerr," Ronan replied. "Acting innkeeper."
"Ah." Vane's tone turned amused. "She finally hired muscle."
"I handle operations," Ronan corrected mildly. "Rowena handles guests."
Vane chuckled as if that distinction didn't matter. His gaze drifted back to Rowena, lingering a heartbeat too long—not on her face alone, but on the way she stood, tense and trapped behind the counter.
Rowena stiffened.
Vane's voice stayed friendly. "I'm here about a private obligation."
Ronan kept his expression neutral. "Which obligation?"
Vane lifted his satchel and produced a thin packet of papers. He didn't slap them down. He laid them out neatly, like cards in a game he knew he'd win.
"The loan," Vane said. "The one your late husband signed. Four years ago. Five-year term."
Rowena's breath hitched.
Vane looked at her like she'd just provided entertainment. "You remember now."
Ronan didn't look at the papers first. He looked at Vane.
"Are you the lender?" Ronan asked.
Vane's smile remained. "An agent."
"Of whom?" Ronan asked.
Vane's eyes gleamed. "Of the party that holds the note."
Ronan didn't let him keep it vague. "Name the party."
Vane's smile stayed fixed, but a faint irritation flickered behind it. "Morrow Ledgerworks."
Ronan nodded once. Another name filed.
"And you're authorized to collect on their behalf," Ronan said, making it a statement, not a question.
"Authorized," Vane agreed smoothly. "Empowered. Permitted. Pick your favorite word."
"Show me the authority," Ronan said.
Rowena blinked at Ronan as if she couldn't believe he was asking.
Vane blinked too—surprised, then amused. "You want paperwork."
"I want proof," Ronan replied.
Vane laughed softly. "You've got a spine. That's refreshing."
He produced another sheet with a seal and a signature, sliding it forward so Ronan could see without touching. The ink looked fresh, the seal intact.
Ronan read it, eyes moving quickly. His face didn't change, but his mind turned like gears.
Agent appointment. Collection authority. Scope… broad. Jurisdiction… grey. Enough to intimidate villagers. Not enough to impress someone who understood the language.
Ronan looked up. "This document authorizes collection," he said. "It doesn't authorize seizure of property without court order."
Vane's smile didn't move. "This isn't the city, Captain."
Ronan's eyes narrowed a fraction at the title, but he didn't react otherwise. "Frontier still has law," he said.
Vane leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only the counter heard. "Frontier has leverage."
Rowena made a small sound—half fear, half anger she didn't know where to put.
Ronan kept his voice mild. "State the balance due."
Vane sighed as if asked to recite something boring. He tapped the top page. "Principal remaining. Interest. Service fees. Travel fees. Administrative fees." His finger slid to a number and then stopped, like a man savoring the moment.
Rowena's shoulders shook once.
Ronan didn't flinch. "Itemized," he said.
Vane lifted his brows. "Excuse me?"
"Itemized interest schedule," Ronan clarified. "Rate changes. Fee justification. Payment history credited against principal versus interest. If you want serious discussion, we do it properly."
Vane stared at him for a moment, then laughed—quiet, delighted. "Oh, I like you."
Ronan didn't smile back. "We're not here to be liked."
Rowena's fingers clenched on the counter so hard her nails dug into wood.
Vane finally turned his attention to her again, voice dropping into syrup. "Rowena. Sweet Rowena. I'm not your enemy."
Rowena's voice came brittle. "You're here to take my inn."
Vane's smile stayed warm. "I'm here to collect what's owed."
Ronan cut in, calm as a blade's edge. "And if it's not paid by the deadline?"
Vane's eyes flicked to him, then back to Rowena. "Then the contract executes its remedies."
He said "remedies" like Avenholt had. Same word. Different intent.
Ronan opened the packet and pulled out the clause page—the one that had chilled him before. He kept his face still as he read it aloud, slowly, letting the room feel the ugliness even if the words tried to dress it up.
"'If payment is not fulfilled within five years… the debtor shall enter bonded service… until the sum is repaid in full.'"
Rowena's face had gone white.
Ronan lowered the page. "You intend to enforce bonded service."
Vane's smile widened. "It's a perfectly legal clause."
"It's predatory," Ronan said.
Vane shrugged slightly. "Predatory is a matter of opinion. A signature is fact."
Rowena whispered, "My husband—"
"He signed," Vane said gently, as if consoling her. "And he died. Leaving you with the responsibility. It's sad." He sighed. "But sadness doesn't pay."
Ronan kept his voice even. "Your other remedy?"
Vane's finger traced a line on the page without actually touching it. "Operating rights," he said. "If the debtor cannot satisfy the obligation, the lender may claim the inn's operating rights and appoint management."
Rowena's eyes widened, horror shifting. "You'd—"
"We'd keep it running," Vane said smoothly. "We're not monsters. We'd even keep you employed."
Rowena's mouth trembled. "Employed," she repeated, like the word tasted rotten.
Vane's gaze lingered on her again, and his smile turned more intimate than it had any right to be. "Bonded," he corrected softly. "But taken care of."
Ronan's hand tightened around the paper. He didn't raise his voice, but the air around him cooled.
"We're not discussing Rowena as collateral," Ronan said.
Vane's smile didn't leave. "You may not like the contract's language, Captain, but the contract doesn't require your approval."
Ronan leaned forward slightly. "It requires enforceability."
Avenholt shifted minutely by the door—still silent, still watching.
Vane's brows lifted. "Enforceability?"
Ronan tapped the clause with one finger. "Civic law does not recognize slavery. Bonded service clauses are contested even in Greyhaven, and they don't become clean just because the village smells like fish."
Vane's smile faltered for the first time—only a hair. Then it returned, colder. "Contested. Not forbidden."
"Contested means delayed," Ronan said calmly. "Delayed means expensive. Expensive means you prefer voluntary compliance."
Rowena stared at Ronan like he was building a wall between her and a monster using only words.
Vane's eyes narrowed. "You're stalling."
Ronan didn't deny it. "I'm clarifying."
Vane leaned on the counter slightly, rings glinting. "Fine. Clarify this: will Rowena pay the balance in full by deadline?"
Rowena's throat worked. She couldn't answer.
Ronan answered for her. "We're restructuring."
Vane laughed softly. "Restructuring." He said it like a child playing merchant.
Ronan continued, unshaken. "The inn's revenue is up. Rooms are being repaired. Supply chain is stabilized under my name. We've already engaged Civic Collection for a formal schedule on municipal dues."
Vane's eyes flicked to Avenholt briefly, irritation flashing. "I see."
Ronan slid a single sheet forward—a clean projection plan, written in simple terms. Portions. Expected occupancy. Weekly supply costs. A schedule that showed how the inn could hit the balance by end of year if the bleeding stopped.
Vane didn't touch it. He glanced at it like a man looking at a fly that dared to land on his sleeve.
"You expect me to believe your little chalkboard menu will defeat a contract?" he asked lightly.
"I expect you to understand incentives," Ronan said, echoing Avenholt's earlier line on purpose. "You can squeeze and kill the inn and maybe fight in court for a clause that draws attention you don't want. Or you can accept structured payments, on time, with oversight."
Vane's smile tightened. "Oversight."
"I'm putting my name on this," Ronan said. "And my payments will be clean."
Vane studied him for a long moment. "And what do you get out of this, Captain?"
Ronan didn't blink. "An inn that doesn't collapse. A woman who doesn't get eaten by paperwork and predators."
Vane's eyes flicked to Rowena again, and something predatory moved behind the friendliness.
Rowena forced herself to speak, voice trembling but present. "I'll pay," she said. "I'll pay what I owe."
Vane's smile softened, as if pleased by obedience. "Good girl."
Rowena flinched.
Ronan's voice cut in immediately, calm but hard. "Don't speak to her like that."
Vane's smile widened. "Touchy."
Ronan held his gaze. "Professional."
Vane exhaled, as if bored. "Very well. Here's the reality." He tapped the contract again. "End of year is the deadline. You can make payments until then." He tilted his head. "But if you miss—if you slip—if the sea gets rough and coin gets thin…"
He spread his hands slightly. "We take what's due."
Rowena's breath came shallow.
Ronan asked, still calm, "Name the person who will receive payments."
Vane blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Name," Ronan repeated. "Not the organization. The clerk. The drop point. The ledger holder. Who signs off when the balance is cleared?"
Vane's eyes narrowed further. "You're digging."
"I'm making sure payments don't 'vanish,'" Ronan replied evenly. "If we're paying, we pay into a clear chain. Otherwise you can claim non-receipt and execute anyway."
That hit.
Vane's smile froze for a fraction, then returned with a sharp edge. "Clever."
He finally picked up the projection sheet between two fingers and scanned it more seriously. His eyes moved quickly—he wasn't stupid. He was simply arrogant.
When he finished, he set it down and leaned in, voice dropping.
"You're trying to save her," Vane murmured. "Admirable." His smile turned cruelly warm. "But you're wasting effort."
Ronan didn't react.
Vane continued, almost conversational. "Rowena doesn't need to suffer like this. She doesn't need to scrape coins and beg suppliers and pretend this little hut is a fortress."
Rowena's voice came raw. "Stop."
Vane ignored her. His gaze pinned her with that same intimate predator's calm. "There are… simpler arrangements."
Ronan's eyes sharpened. "Say it plainly."
Vane's smile widened, and his laugh—soft and pleased—curled through the room like smoke.
"She could come with us," Vane said lightly. "Voluntarily. Sign a service settlement. No more scrambling. No more debt hanging over her head. We'd ensure she's… well taken care of."
Rowena's face went ashen.
Ronan's body went very still.
Avenholt, by the door, didn't move at all—only watched, as if this outcome was none of his file.
Vane's voice stayed friendly, almost kind, which made it worse. "She's exhausted. You can see it. This frontier is chewing her up. We offer… relief."
Rowena's hands shook on the counter. "I'm not— I'm not going anywhere."
Vane tilted his head, smile unwavering. "You might change your mind as the deadline gets closer."
Ronan's voice came low, controlled. "You're done."
Vane blinked at him, amused. "Am I?"
Ronan leaned forward, eyes steady as a drawn line. "You will provide an itemized schedule. You will provide a clear payment recipient. You will acknowledge receipt of partial payments in writing. And you will leave my inn."
Vane's smile sharpened. "My inn?"
Ronan didn't blink. "The inn under my operational management."
Vane stared at him for a beat, then chuckled like Ronan was the funniest thing he'd heard all week.
"You're going to be a problem," Vane said pleasantly. "That's alright. Problems can be… managed."
He gathered his papers slowly, taking his time. Before he put the contract away, he slid a small card onto the counter—clean print, sealed stamp.
"Contact point," he said, tapping it. "You want schedules and receipts, Captain? You can have them. For now."
His gaze drifted to Rowena one last time, and the smile he gave her was the kind you couldn't wash off.
"Think about the offer," Vane murmured.
Rowena looked like she might vomit.
Ronan's hand landed on the card, covering it. "Get out."
Vane's smile didn't change. "End of year," he reminded, almost gently. Then he stepped back.
As he turned toward the door, his rings clicked softly—like a lock closing.
Avenholt shifted aside once more, letting him pass. Not allies, Ronan realized. Not friends. Just different kinds of blades.
Vane paused at the threshold and glanced back over his shoulder, grin wide, eyes cold.
"Enjoy your little victories," he said. "They taste sweetest right before they're taken."
Then he left, and the inn's warmth felt thinner for a moment—like a hearth that had just realized wolves knew its address.