The sea didn't care who ran Gullwatch.
It rolled in and out like it always had, washing blood from stones and leaving salt behind like a reminder: everything here rusted eventually—iron, wood, men, promises.
The warehouse smelled like rust already.
Darric lay where he'd fallen, eyes glassy, mouth half-open as if he'd meant to say something final and failed. Around him, the "kennel" looked less like a den and more like a failed attempt at legitimacy—crates stacked into lanes, ledgers tucked under boards, a desk with a lockbox, twine-tied letters that read like a merchant's business plan if the merchant happened to sell fear.
Ronan stood over it, sword still in hand, and felt the first cold edge of the next problem.
Killing a boss didn't end a gang.
It made it hungry.
Brann's boots crunched through splinters as he wandered the floor, sniffing the air like an animal deciding if the fight was truly over. Sabine paced near the doorway, spear held loosely now but never set down, eyes checking corners even though the bodies stopped moving.
Kael crouched at the desk with those letters spread out in a fan, scanning them with quiet speed.
"Vacuum," Sabine said at last, voice flat.
Brann glanced at her. "What?"
Sabine's gaze didn't lift. "You kill the head. The body spasms. Everyone wants the crown."
Brann grinned. "Let them. I'll break their hands."
Ronan wiped his blade on a rag and slid it back into its sheath. "You can't be everywhere," he said.
Brann's grin held, but his eyes sharpened. He knew that truth. A-ranks were strong, not omnipresent. Gullwatch was a web of alleys and quiet grudges. If something splintered here, it wouldn't announce itself with a banner.
It would show up as a knife in a dockside argument. A burned stall. A missing runner. A supplier suddenly "too busy" to answer.
Ronan nodded toward the letters. "What else did you find?"
Kael didn't look up. "Structure," he said, same word as before. "Roster notes. Payment schedules. Territory boundaries. Who's allowed to shake down who." He flipped one page. "They were trying to stop freelancing."
Brann snorted. "So Darric wanted to be respectable."
Kael's mouth twitched faintly. "Respectable criminals are still criminals."
Ronan's gaze tightened. "But they're predictable."
Kael looked up then, eyes calm. "Yes."
That was the dangerous part.
Predictable meant manageable.
Unpredictable meant bodies.
Ronan exhaled slowly and gestured toward the door. "We clear this place. Take what matters. Burn what doesn't."
Sabine lifted a brow. "Burn?"
Ronan's voice stayed even. "Not the whole warehouse. Just the papers and marks that tell the next idiot how to rebuild it fast."
Brann nodded, satisfied. "Now you're thinking like a raid captain again."
They moved quickly after that—loot in the practical sense, not the greedy. Ledgers. Letters. Anything that looked like a chain connecting the gang to something bigger. Kael took the lockbox and listened to it rattle; Brann took anything that could be used as a weapon later; Sabine checked corners and found a hidden hatch that led to the roof.
Ronan didn't let them linger.
Dawn was coming. And dawn brought eyes.
They left the warehouse by the side lane, slipping into Gullwatch's waking streets while mist still covered their shapes. A fisherman saw them and pretended he hadn't. A dockhand paused mid-step, looked at Brann's axe, and decided his curiosity could wait for a safer day.
When they reached the inn, the Winking Widow looked the same from the outside—warm windows, creaking sign, sea mist clinging to the eaves.
Only the men inside knew how close the night had come to breaking it.
Rowena met them at the back door, still in a sleep shirt and hastily thrown cloak, hair a mess, horns twitching with alarm. She'd woken at some point—maybe from a sound, maybe from instinct—and now her eyes scanned Ronan like he was a battlefield report.
"You're—" she began, voice catching. "You're alive."
Ronan nodded. "Yes."
Rowena's gaze flicked to Brann's blood-specked sleeve, to Sabine's spear, to Kael's calm. "What happened?"
Ronan didn't lie. He also didn't give her details she didn't need before breakfast. "We handled it."
Rowena swallowed hard. "Handled it… how?"
Brann, incapable of subtlety, grinned. "We killed Darric."
Rowena froze like the name struck her in the chest.
Ronan shot Brann a look. "Brann."
Brann shrugged unapologetically. "She needed to know."
Rowena's face went pale. "You killed—" Her voice cracked. "Is that… good?"
Ronan stepped closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry to the stairs where Miri might wake. "It stops him," he said. "It doesn't stop the problem."
Rowena's throat worked. She nodded, but fear lived under the nod. She'd lived with Darric's shadow long enough to know shadows didn't vanish. They changed shape.
Ronan touched her shoulder once—brief, grounding, not tender enough to embarrass her. "Stay inside," he said. "We'll talk after."
Rowena nodded quickly and backed away like she didn't trust herself to stand too close.
Ronan watched her go, then turned toward the common room.
"Now," he said to the others, "we decide what comes next."
They gathered around the staging table—the same place where stew bowls had made adventurers softer, where maps had turned the Winking Widow into a base.
Brann dropped into a chair like his bones didn't care for rest. Sabine remained standing, spear leaned against her shoulder, posture disciplined. Kael sat half in shadow, fingers idly turning one of the letters like it was a coin.
Ronan laid the seized papers on the table.
He didn't open them yet.
First, he said the obvious. "Darric dead creates a vacuum."
Brann's grin returned. "Good. Let the rats fight."
Ronan's gaze stayed steady. "When rats fight, civilians bleed."
Sabine nodded once. "Splinters," she repeated. "Revenge. Copycats. Every small predator thinks he can take a bite."
Brann rolled his shoulders. "Then we bite back."
Ronan didn't argue the instinct. He argued the reality. "We can't stand guard on every alley. And we can't keep spilling blood at the inn's doorstep until the village thinks we're the problem."
Brann's eyes narrowed. "So what, you want to negotiate with corpses?"
Ronan's gaze slid to Kael. "Kael," he said. "You've been quiet."
Kael's mouth curved faintly, as if he'd been waiting for that cue. He placed the letter he'd been holding onto the table and tapped it once.
"I have a solution," Kael said.
Brann snorted. "From you, that's never comforting."
Kael didn't deny it. "It's not comforting," he said. "It's practical."
Ronan didn't speak. He waited.
Kael's eyes lifted, meeting Ronan's directly. "I'm not just a scout."
Sabine's gaze sharpened. Brann's hand drifted toward his axe without thinking.
Kael continued calmly, "I have… history. With the Thieves' Guild."
Brann barked a short laugh, not amused. "Say that again."
Kael's tone didn't change. "Thieves' Guild. Network. Call it what you want. I know how it works."
Sabine's eyes narrowed. "You're telling us now?"
Kael shrugged slightly. "It hasn't mattered until now."
Brann leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. "You've been sitting in the inn, eating stew, sleeping under Rowena's roof, while you're—"
"A thief?" Kael offered, mild.
Brann's grin turned ugly. "Yes."
Kael's expression stayed calm, almost bored. "I'm not here to steal from you."
Ronan cut through the rising heat. "What's your solution?"
Kael's gaze returned to Ronan, and for the first time his voice carried something like honest intent. "I take the remnants," he said. "Darric's boys. The ones who survive. The ones who know the lanes. I reorganize them."
Brann's eyes flashed. "Into what?"
Kael's answer came without hesitation. "A controlled guild."
Silence hit the table like a thrown stone.
Rowena's inn creaked softly, settling around them as if listening.
Ronan's voice was flat. "You want to replace a gang with another power center."
Kael nodded. "Yes."
Brann pushed up from his chair half an inch, anger rising like a wave. "Absolutely not."
Sabine's spear shifted slightly, her body angling like she'd step between them if needed. "That creates a new problem," she said, voice controlled. "You're asking for trust."
Kael's mouth twitched. "I'm asking for permission to put a leash on what's already feral."
Ronan's gaze stayed cold. "And why would we allow that?"
Kael leaned back, fingers steepled. "Because your alternative is chaos."
Brann slammed a fist on the table. "Chaos I can smash."
Kael looked at Brann with quiet pity. "You can smash a man," he said. "You can't smash hunger. You can't smash desperation. Kill ten street thugs and twenty new ones will fill the gaps by next month. Different faces. Same knives."
Ronan didn't flinch. "So you want monopoly."
Kael nodded once. "Yes," he said again, like the word didn't shame him. "Monopoly means rules. Rules mean fewer random cuts. Fewer 'boys taking initiative' because they're bored."
Sabine's eyes were sharp. "And those rules would favor you."
"Of course," Kael said. "I'm not pretending virtue."
Brann leaned forward, voice like thunder held in a fist. "If you build a thieves' guild here, you'll bleed the village."
Kael's gaze didn't waver. "No," he said. "I'll bleed it less than it's about to be bled."
Ronan stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Show me your leverage."
Kael reached into his coat and pulled out a folded parchment sealed with wax.
He placed it on the table gently, like he knew exactly how heavy it was.
Brann's eyes narrowed. "What's that."
Kael's voice stayed casual. "Permission."
Ronan didn't touch it immediately. "From whom?"
Kael's eyes flicked up. "Adventurers' Guild master."
The room tightened.
Brann stared, then barked a laugh that carried no humor. "You're lying."
Kael didn't blink. "Open it."
Ronan broke the seal.
He read quickly—because he could. Years of reports and contracts made his eyes fast. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted, subtle as a blade turning.
Brann leaned in, jaw clenched. Sabine's gaze flicked to the signature and the mark, recognizing official ink even if she didn't know all the names.
It was real.
Frontier pragmatism, written in clean lines: better one leashed predator than ten feral ones.
Brann's voice came low. "So the guild master thinks a thieves' guild is… acceptable."
Kael shrugged. "The guild master thinks the frontier eats idealism."
Ronan set the letter down slowly. "This doesn't mean we agree."
Kael nodded. "No. It means you can't pretend it's impossible."
Brann's eyes burned. "If you do this, you become the next Darric."
Kael's smile was thin. "Darric was sloppy," he said. "And he thought fear was enough. Fear is a blunt tool."
Ronan's voice cut in, sharp. "Conditions."
Kael's gaze returned to him, attentive now. This was the language Kael respected—terms.
Ronan pointed at the map of Gullwatch Ronan had drawn earlier. "No harassment within three streets of the inn," he said. "Not from you. Not from your people. Not from 'boys who got bored.'"
Kael nodded once. "Three streets."
Ronan continued, "No touching suppliers. No pressuring vendors. No mapping delivery routes. No street tax on anyone who supplies the Winking Widow."
Kael's eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. "That removes a revenue line."
Ronan's expression didn't move. "Then find another one that doesn't starve the inn."
Kael was quiet for a beat, then nodded. "Fine."
Sabine spoke, voice crisp. "No touching guests. No intimidation in or around the inn. If someone comes here, they're neutral."
Kael nodded again. "Neutral ground."
Brann leaned forward, grin returning but sharp this time. "And if your boys violate any of it—"
Ronan finished, "—then Brann's name comes down like a hammer."
Brann's smile widened. "I like that part."
Kael's gaze flicked to Brann, acknowledging the threat with calm acceptance. "A leash," he said.
Ronan's eyes stayed hard. "You want to be the leash-holder? Then you get yanked first."
Kael's thin smile returned—honest in its lack of warmth. "Fair."
Brann leaned back in his chair and exhaled like a bull forced to accept a fence. "I still hate this."
Ronan didn't disagree. "So do I."
Sabine's gaze stayed on Kael. "And what do you want in return?"
Kael's eyes glinted faintly in the hearthlight. "Time," he said. "Space. And for you not to interfere while I do it."
Ronan's voice stayed calm. "We interfere if you break terms."
Kael nodded once. "That's the point of terms."
Silence settled again—this time not tense, but heavy with consequence.
Outside, Gullwatch continued to wake. Footsteps on wet planks. A gull's cry. The village pretending it didn't know someone had died last night so it could keep functioning.
Kael stood, slipping the letter back into his coat.
Then he smiled once—thin and honest, no charm in it at all.
"I'm not doing this for you," Kael said quietly. "I'm doing it because chaos is bad business… and I prefer business."
His eyes flicked to Ronan, just long enough to carry a second meaning—almost amused.
"And," he added, softer, "I prefer being on good terms with the man who turned an inn into a fortress in a week."
Then he turned and walked out into the mist, already moving like a man who'd just claimed a territory that didn't technically belong to him.
Ronan watched the door close.
Brann muttered, "We're really letting a thief take over."
Ronan's gaze stayed on the policy board, on the hearth, on the rooms upstairs where Rowena slept.
"We're not letting him," Ronan said.
"We're aiming him."
And if Ronan was right, the next days wouldn't be quieter.
They'd just be… organized.