The rain kept coming after the door shut.
Not dramatic thunder—just relentless water, hammering the roof like the sea had decided Gullwatch needed to be reminded who owned the coast. The inn settled back into its sounds: hearth crackle, wind at the window, the faint drip of water from the doorway threshold where boots had tracked in wet.
Ronan stood in the center of the dining room for a long heartbeat after the gang left, listening to the silence they'd left behind.
Then he exhaled and moved.
A raid didn't end when the monster died. It ended when the blood was cleaned, the wounds were checked, and the place was made safe enough to sleep without dying for it.
He set his sword on the counter. Not hidden. Not displayed. Just… there, a fact.
Chairs first.
He righted the tipped one, dragged it back into its place, and tightened the loose leg with a wedge of scrap wood. The boiling-water line he'd poured earlier still hissed faintly in spots, a thin fog rising as it cooled. He grabbed a rag, dipped it in clean water, and wiped the floor in slow strokes until the wood stopped shining wet.
Rowena hovered in the kitchen doorway like she didn't know how to step back into her own inn after watching it become a battlefield.
Her hair was loose and messy, horns twitching with every creak of the building. Her eyes were too wide.
Ronan didn't tell her to go away this time.
He just said, "Towel."
Rowena blinked. "What?"
"Dry rag," Ronan clarified, nodding toward the spill. "We don't let water sit."
Rowena swallowed, then moved—quietly this time, no arguing. She grabbed a towel from the hook and came out, kneeling beside him to dab at the wet edges he'd missed.
For a few minutes they cleaned in silence, side by side, as if their hands could scrub fear off the floorboards.
Rowena's voice finally broke through, thin. "They'll come back."
"Yes," Ronan said.
Rowena's fingers tightened around the towel. "And next time… maybe more."
"Yes," Ronan repeated.
Rowena flinched as if his certainty hurt.
Ronan stood, wrung out the rag, and glanced at the door. The latch held. The hinge plate held. But the inn felt… different now. Like everyone could sense the boundary had been tested, and the world had taken note.
Rowena looked up at him, face pale in hearthlight. "You scared them."
"I made it inconvenient," Ronan corrected. He didn't boast. He didn't pretend it was over. "That's not the same as solving it."
Rowena's throat worked. "I thought… I thought Gullwatch gangs were just…" She made a helpless motion. "A nuisance. Like rats."
Ronan shook his head. "They're not rats. They're wolves that learned paperwork doesn't reach this far."
Rowena stared at him, towel clenched in her hands. "So what now?"
Ronan's gaze went distant for a moment, like he was looking at a map only he could see.
"Now," he said, "they're an enemy. Not a nuisance."
Rowena's horns dipped. "Enemy," she whispered.
Ronan nodded once.
He moved to the counter and picked up his sword, wiping rain specks from the sheath.
"Tonight proved something," he said quietly.
Rowena swallowed. "That you can fight?"
Ronan looked at her. "That we're being squeezed from multiple sides."
Rowena's face tightened.
Ronan continued anyway, because avoiding it didn't stop it.
"The Civic collector will return," he said. "He gave us an extension. That means he'll want proof we're following the schedule."
Rowena nodded shakily. "Yes."
"And the private lender's agent," Ronan went on, voice hardening slightly, "isn't here for coin alone."
Rowena's cheeks went white again. She wrapped the towel tighter around her hands like it could keep her from being claimed.
"He wants the inn," Rowena whispered.
Ronan's eyes stayed steady. "He wants you."
Rowena flinched. Her breath came shallow. "I'm not… I'm not—"
"I know," Ronan said, and the steadiness in his voice was the only thing keeping her from breaking. "But that's what makes it worse. Predators like Vane don't need your consent to enjoy the chase."
Rowena's lips trembled. "So fixing the inn… isn't enough."
Ronan's gaze sharpened. "Fixing the inn is necessary. It's not sufficient."
Rowena stared at him, blinking fast as if holding back tears.
Ronan shifted his weight, scanning the dining room again—the chairs he'd positioned, the lantern angles, the clean pass window. All of it had worked tonight.
But it had also broadcast something.
Strength.
And strength invited challenges.
He turned his head slightly, listening. The rain hadn't stopped. The inn had quieted again. But beneath that, Ronan felt the faint pressure of the Innkeeper blessing—like the building's nerves were still awake.
A draft touched his cheek.
Not from the door.
From under the floor.
Ronan went still.
Rowena noticed instantly. "What?"
Ronan didn't answer. He crouched and pressed his palm to the wood near the kitchen threshold, eyes narrowing.
There it was again—cold air threading up through a seam where there shouldn't be a seam.
He shifted a barrel slightly.
The draft strengthened.
Ronan's innkeeper sense tugged—not like spoilage, not like broken wood. Like hidden space.
He looked toward the kitchen door.
Rowena's eyes widened. "Ronan—"
He moved into the kitchen and crouched near the far corner where the floor met the wall behind a stack of sacks. The wood here looked older, darker. But the draft didn't match the age.
He slid a sack aside.
Rowena followed too quickly—too fast for someone exhausted. Her face was suddenly too pale.
Ronan's eyes narrowed.
He lifted his lantern and inspected the boards. There was a faint line—cleaner than the rest—like something had been sealed and then dusted over.
He reached out and ran his fingers along the seam.
Metal clicked softly beneath his touch.
A lock.
Ronan shifted his lantern higher.
The lock was modern.
Not "new" like still shiny. But newer than everything around it. The metal wasn't as pitted by salt. The design was the kind used in cities—precise, manufactured. It didn't belong in a frontier inn's underfloor.
Ronan's stomach tightened.
Rowena's breath hitched behind him. "Don't," she whispered.
Ronan didn't move immediately.
He didn't grab the lock.
He didn't yank boards.
He just stayed crouched, lantern held steady, and asked one question—quietly, carefully.
"Rowena," he said. "What is this?"
Rowena's voice trembled. "It's… it's nothing."
Ronan turned his head just enough to look at her. Her horns were tipped back tight. Her eyes were glossy with fear. Her hands were clenched at her sides like she was bracing for impact.
That wasn't "nothing."
"That's a sealed cellar door," Ronan said.
Rowena swallowed hard. "Please."
Ronan's jaw tightened. "You've avoided it."
Rowena's lips parted, then closed. Her voice came out like a crack. "Don't open it."
Ronan held her gaze.
A few heartbeats passed with only the rain and the hearth's distant crackle.
Then Ronan looked back down at the lock.
His lantern light caught something.
A scratch.
Not a shallow scuff from wear.
A deep, angled gouge across the metal near the keyhole—like a blade or pry tool had been dragged there with force.
Someone had tried to open it.
Ronan's eyes narrowed.
Rowena saw his expression change and went even paler.
Her voice was too fast, too desperate. "Ronan—please. I can explain. Just—just not now."
Ronan didn't touch the lock.
But he didn't look away from it either.
Because the scratch told him something important:
This wasn't just a secret Rowena was ashamed of.
It was a secret other people had already tried to get into.
And that meant whatever was behind that door wasn't only Rowena's problem.
It was the inn's.
It was his.
Ronan slowly stood, lantern still in hand, and faced Rowena fully.
Her hands trembled. Her eyes begged him without words.
Outside, rain hammered the roof. Inside, the inn held its breath.
And Ronan made a decision—not to force it open tonight…
…but to treat it like what it was.
A sealed wound.
And someone had already tried to tear it open.