Dawn in Gullwatch had started to feel routine.
That was the problem.
Routine made people careless. It made them believe yesterday's survival meant tomorrow's safety.
Ronan tightened his cloak at the inn's doorway and stared at the lane—empty except for mist and the distant shapes of fishermen moving toward the docks. The Winking Widow's sign creaked softly above him, its fresh scratches still ugly in the grey light.
Behind him, Rowena hovered like she'd been waiting to pounce the moment he stepped out.
"I'm coming," she said.
Ronan didn't turn. "No."
Rowena's horns twitched back, offended. "Why not?"
Ronan finally looked at her. She'd tied her hair up, apron already on, boots laced like she meant business. Her stubbornness was almost admirable.
Almost.
"Because you're visible," Ronan said simply. "Because you're known. Because you're an easy target."
Rowena's mouth opened—then closed. Pride wanted to argue. Fear made her hesitate.
"I can handle the market," she insisted anyway, voice thinner than she wanted.
Ronan's tone stayed calm. "You handle the inn."
Rowena's cheeks flushed. "That's not the same."
"It is," Ronan replied. "If something happens in the street, I can move. You can't. Everyone knows your face."
Rowena swallowed hard. Her hands curled at her sides, frustration fighting logic.
Ronan softened his voice by a fraction. "You want to help? Keep the room steady. Keep Miri steady. Keep Brann's team fed. That's how we win today."
Rowena's eyes flicked down, then up again. "You'll be careful."
Ronan nodded once. "Always."
Rowena stepped forward impulsively like she might grab his sleeve.
She didn't.
Instead she exhaled, forced a smile that didn't quite land, and stepped back into the doorway.
"Fine," she said, clipped. "But if you get stabbed, I'll haunt you."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "Noted."
He left before she could change her mind.
The market was waking up when he arrived—stalls creaking open, awnings shaking off damp, vendors moving with that early-morning impatience that came from having too much to do and not enough time to do it.
Ronan didn't linger. He moved with purpose—flour first, then lamp oil, then salt. Basics that didn't care about gangs or politics.
The vendors watched him in a different way now.
Not quite friendly.
Not quite fearful.
Curious.
Like they were trying to decide if the Winking Widow was becoming an asset or a liability.
Ronan kept his face neutral and his coin honest.
He didn't bargain like a desperate man anymore. He bargained like someone who had options.
Then he turned toward the butcher.
Gullwatch's butcher shop sat a little off the main lane, closer to the smokehouse and the fish sheds. A squat building with a wide cutting block visible through an open window, hooks hanging inside like skeletal ribs.
Ronan smelled blood before he saw it.
The butcher—Kell, as Rowena had called him—stood behind the block with sleeves rolled to the elbow, cleaver rising and falling in steady rhythm.
He didn't look up when Ronan approached.
He didn't greet him.
That alone was wrong.
Ronan stepped closer. "Morning."
The cleaver kept moving.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Kell's shoulders were stiff. His jaw was clenched hard enough to show veins.
Ronan waited for the polite grunt, the usual "what do you need," the normal friction of business.
Nothing.
Ronan placed his hand lightly on the counter edge. "I'm here for meat."
The cleaver paused.
Kell's hands tightened around the handle.
Then it resumed, faster—almost angry.
"No," Kell said, voice rough, not looking up.
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "No what?"
"No sale," Kell muttered.
Ronan watched his hands.
They weren't steady.
Not trembling like a drunk. Trembling like a man holding himself together by force.
Fear.
Not greed. Not spite. Fear.
Ronan's voice stayed calm. "What changed?"
Kell didn't answer. He kept cutting, but the rhythm had lost its clean confidence. He was trying to look normal and failing.
Ronan slid a few coins onto the counter—enough to make most vendors blink.
"Cash," Ronan said. "Clean. No tab."
Kell's eyes flicked to the coin for the briefest moment.
Then away.
"No," he repeated, hoarse.
Ronan didn't push with anger. He pushed with clarity.
"You're refusing cash," Ronan said. "So someone told you to."
Kell's shoulders tightened. His cleaver rose, hung for a heartbeat, then came down again with a harsh chop.
Ronan leaned in slightly. "Who told you not to sell?"
Kell's throat worked. The cleaver slowed.
For a moment, Ronan thought the butcher would spit and tell him to get out. That would've been easier. Anger could be negotiated.
Fear couldn't.
Kell's voice came out low, strained. "Don't ask me that."
Ronan didn't move. "I'm asking you."
Kell finally looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot with sleeplessness. His face was pale under the grime. And there was something worse than fear in his expression—
Resignation.
"I can't," Kell whispered, almost like a confession.
Ronan's gaze stayed steady. "Street boys?"
Kell flinched at the words, then shook his head quickly. "No."
Ronan waited.
Kell swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the lane as if he expected someone to be listening through fog.
Then he muttered, barely audible, "It's not street boys. It's a… paper man."
Ronan's chest tightened.
Paper man meant Civic. Contracts. Licenses. Notices. Clauses. The kind of pressure you couldn't punch.
A private hand wearing an official glove.
Ronan's mind snapped back to Vane's smile. To the "other creditor won't be so civil." To Marla's warning about people mapping suppliers.
He nodded once—small, controlled—like he'd received a tactical update.
Kell's voice cracked. "Don't make it worse, inn man. I've got—" He swallowed, eyes flicking away. "I've got family."
Ronan understood that too well.
Ronan slid the coins back into his pouch. He didn't leave them as a bribe. Bribes created obligations.
He asked one final question, softer. "Did he threaten your shop, or your papers?"
Kell's jaw tightened. "Both."
Ronan nodded once. "Alright."
He stepped back.
Kell's shoulders sagged with relief that looked almost like shame.
Ronan didn't offer comfort. He offered distance.
"Keep breathing," Ronan said quietly.
Then he turned and walked away before the butcher could see how hard Ronan's jaw was clenched.
On the way back through the market, Ronan's mind stayed cold and moving.
If meat was blocked, they adapted.
Fish was plentiful—Old Jory would supply, and Jory had already offered extra per order. Stew cuts could come from hunted game. Salted fish and beans could stretch meals. And if the inn became a hub, then supply couldn't depend on one fearful butcher.
He began forming the decision as he walked.
A mini supply hunt.
Not today—today was stabilization.
But soon.
He'd ask Brann's team. They had skill, and more importantly, they had mobility. They could hunt outside the village's political fingers.
He'd also start scouting alternate suppliers. Coastal hamlets. Traders passing through. Even preserved stores from Greyhaven routes.
If someone wanted to strangle the inn, Ronan would teach it to breathe through another throat.
By the time he reached the Winking Widow, his arms were full: flour sacks, oil jars, salt wrapped in cloth.
The inn sat solid at the end of the lane, windows warm against fog.
And outside, as if summoned by his thoughts, the gang loitered.
Not inside.
Not bold enough while Brann's presence still echoed.
They lounged near the neighboring shop awnings, laughing too loud, talking about Rowena loudly enough for anyone passing to hear.
"Widow's been smiling a lot lately," one said, voice greasy. "Must be nice, having men fixing her bed for her."
Another chuckled. "Bet she's grateful."
They glanced at the inn's windows, like they wanted Rowena to hear and blush and crumble.
Ronan didn't react.
He walked past them without stopping, without glaring, without giving them the satisfaction of being noticed.
Inside, Miri hurried to take the goods from him. "You're back!"
"Yes," Ronan said. "Put salt on the top shelf. Oil away from the stove."
Rowena appeared behind the counter, eyes searching his face. "Did you get—?"
Ronan shook his head once.
Rowena's face tightened. "The butcher…"
Ronan didn't say it aloud in front of Miri. He only said, "We'll manage."
Rowena swallowed, trying to look strong. She nodded, but Ronan saw the tremor in her fingers.
The door opened again, letting in cold air and the heavier sound of boots.
Brann returned with his team, wet cloaks and sharp eyes, smelling faintly of the outside world. His presence changed the inn's weight instantly—like a guard dog returning to a porch.
Brann spotted Ronan immediately and frowned. "You look like you bit a nail."
Ronan gestured subtly toward the kitchen. "Talk."
They moved back far enough to keep the conversation from drifting.
Ronan kept his voice low. "Butcher stopped answering. Refused sale."
Brann's brows knit. "Why?"
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "He said it wasn't street boys."
Brann's expression shifted—attention sharpening. "Then what?"
"A paper man," Ronan said.
Brann's mouth twisted. "Ah."
He understood. Adventurers didn't like paperwork because paperwork killed you slowly.
Ronan continued, "We need meat. If someone's pressing suppliers, we stop relying on them."
Brann's eyes lit—just slightly—like a man offered a familiar solution. "You want us to hunt."
"Yes," Ronan said.
Brann grinned openly now, excitement sparking through exhaustion. "Finally. Something fun."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "It's not fun. It's supply."
Brann waved a hand. "Supply that involves killing something in the woods. That's fun."
Ronan didn't argue. "Soon. Not today."
Brann leaned closer, voice lowering. "Village is… close," he murmured. "I can feel it. Shops are getting hit harder. Vandalism. 'Fees.' They're escalating. People are angry."
Ronan glanced toward the window where the gang loitered.
Brann continued, "The street boys are restless. Not just posturing. Their eyes are sharper. Like they're waiting for an order."
Ronan nodded slowly. "Because pressure's building."
"And when pressure builds," Brann said, almost pleased, "something breaks."
Ronan's gaze stayed steady. "We decide what breaks."
The hook came near sunset.
Not a grand attack. Not a raid.
A small act of contempt.
Ronan was in the dining room adjusting the reservation slate when a sudden thud echoed from outside.
Then a shout—loud, ugly.
"HEY! WIDOW! YOUR ROOF WON'T SAVE YOU!"
Ronan moved instantly, crossing to the door and pushing it open.
A gang boy was already sprinting away down the lane, laughing as he ran.
The inn's sign swung wildly above the doorway.
Someone had kicked it hard enough to make the chain clatter.
Rowena rushed up behind Ronan, breath quick. "What—?"
Ronan stared at the sign, then at the retreating figure.
Rowena's voice trembled. "They're getting bolder."
Ronan closed the door carefully and latched it.
His voice stayed calm, but it was the calm of a man counting blades. "They're testing the boundary."
Rowena swallowed. "What do we do?"
Ronan looked at her—really looked.
Her fear was real. Her shame too. And beneath both was a stubborn will that hadn't died even after three years of drowning.
He kept his tone steady. "We keep the inn steady."
Rowena's eyes flicked toward the windows. "And tonight?"
Ronan didn't lie. "Tonight they might try to enter."
Rowena's breath hitched.
Brann's voice came from behind them, amused but dangerous. "Good."
Rowena turned, startled.
Brann rolled his shoulders like he was loosening for a fight. "If they step inside," he said, grin sharp, "they'll learn why I'm not polite."
Ronan held up one hand, stopping him before the promise became the plan.
"Not yet," Ronan said quietly.
Brann's grin widened anyway. "You and your patience."
Ronan's eyes stayed on the door latch. "Patience keeps us from giving them the story they want."
Brann leaned closer, voice low. "And if they don't want a story tonight?"
Ronan's gaze hardened. "Then they want fear."
He glanced at Rowena. "And we don't feed them that either."
Rowena swallowed hard and nodded, trying to borrow Ronan's steadiness like a cloak.
Outside, the sea wind rattled the sign again, scraping fresh pain into old wood.
Inside, the inn's hearth crackled low, warm, watchful.
And Ronan felt it—clear as a knife edge.
The night wasn't going to stay quiet.