The inn didn't wake up gently.
It woke up to the smell of iron and wet wool, to the soft scrape of a body being dragged across boards that had seen too much, and to the hush-quiet that followed violence—like the building itself was holding its breath.
Ronan worked in that hush.
He didn't let blood sit. He didn't let bodies stay where Rowena would stumble into them at dawn. He moved with the same grim efficiency he used after a raid boss: clean the field, secure the perimeter, check the weak points, then decide what comes next.
Brann, as expected, treated the aftermath like a mild inconvenience and a good story.
Kael treated it like weather—inevitable, boring, handled.
They were halfway through hauling the fourth corpse toward the back alley when a soft clink of armor came from the stairs.
Sabine appeared in the common room doorway, hair tied back, eyes sharp despite sleep, spear in hand like she'd grabbed it before her brain fully woke.
She took in the smeared floorboards. The splintered chair. The broken lantern hook. The faint copper stink that even soap couldn't erase.
Then her gaze landed on the bodies.
Sabine didn't gasp. She didn't ask if everyone was alright.
She only said, flat and awake, "What did I miss?"
Brann grinned without humor. "Visitors."
Sabine's eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, boots silent on damp wood. "How many?"
"Five," Ronan answered, wiping his hands on a rag. "Four dead. One tied up in storage."
Sabine's jaw tightened. "Inside the inn?"
Ronan nodded once. "Back door."
Sabine looked toward the rear corridor, assessing like she could see the fight through the scuffs and splashes. "Damage?"
"Minor," Ronan said.
Brann laughed. "Minor," he repeated, as if the concept was funny. "He's annoyed because I redecorated his corridor."
Sabine's gaze slid to the cracked plaster where a body had hit. "You hit a man into a wall."
Brann shrugged. "He was in the way."
Sabine's eyes went colder. "And Rowena?"
Ronan's voice stayed steady. "Asleep."
That mattered. Sabine's shoulders eased by a fraction, then tightened again as her mind caught up to the obvious question.
"Are we waiting for them to come back?" she asked.
"No," Ronan said.
Brann's grin sharpened. "We're going to their kennel."
Sabine's brows lifted. "Kennel."
"The place they keep running from," Brann explained. "Their hole. Their boss."
Sabine's spear shifted subtly in her grip. The itch showed in her posture even if her face stayed composed. "You're raiding them."
Brann glanced at her, amused. "You want in?"
Sabine didn't answer with words.
She answered by stepping closer, spear angled like she was already picturing corridors.
Ronan watched her for a beat, then nodded once. "You're in if you follow calls."
Sabine's eyes flicked to his, assessing. "I do."
"Good," Ronan said. "Because we're doing this clean."
They moved into the dining room and turned the staging table from dungeon maps to street murder.
Ronan pulled a piece of charcoal and sketched on the underside of a slate board—crude lines, but clear: the net sheds by the waterfront, the warehouse with the green door, the roof line, the alley behind it, the narrow lane that led to the fish stalls.
Brann leaned over the map with a pleased hum. "Like old times."
Kael stood back, quiet, watching the entrance points like he was already counting footfalls.
Sabine set the butt of her spear to the floor and stared at the drawing with a soldier's focus. "Green door warehouse," she said. "How many inside?"
Ronan didn't pretend certainty. "Unknown. But our captive said 'a lot.' That usually means six to twelve. Maybe more."
Brann cracked his knuckles. "Good."
Ronan's gaze hardened. "No loud hero talk. No chasing into the dark. We cut the head and break the structure."
He tapped the map with charcoal-stained fingers. "Entry points. Front door. Side hatch. Roof access."
Brann's finger jabbed the front. "I go here."
"Yes," Ronan agreed immediately. "Front pressure. You hit hard and loud enough to fix their attention on you."
Brann grinned, happy with any role that involved being a battering ram.
Ronan looked at Sabine. "You're corridor denial. Spear control. You hold the side hatch and the interior lane. Anyone tries to rush past or flank Brann, you pin them."
Sabine's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. "Understood."
Ronan's gaze slid to Kael. "You cut off runners. Silent flank. Roof if needed. Anyone breaks away, you end it before it becomes a message."
Kael nodded once. "Already planned."
Ronan tapped the map one last time. "I'm caller. I move where the line breaks. I finish Darric."
Brann's grin grew sharp. "You're sure he'll be there."
"He's escalating," Ronan said. "He doesn't send five men at an inn without being close enough to taste the result."
Sabine's voice was dry. "And if he runs?"
Kael answered without blinking. "He won't."
Brann chuckled. "He's got nowhere to run from me."
Ronan's voice stayed calm. "We move now. Before dawn fully breaks. Before the village wakes enough to get in the way."
Sabine's brow twitched. "Rowena."
Ronan's eyes flicked toward the stairs. "She stays asleep. Miri too." His tone left no room for debate. "We're not bringing this to their beds."
Brann nodded once, unexpectedly serious.
Kael didn't comment. He was already checking his blade.
Ronan rolled the slate, tucked it under his arm, and reached for his sword.
No speeches.
No ceremony.
Just motion.
The streets of Gullwatch before sunrise were a different village.
Quieter. Meaner. Built from shadows and salt.
They moved in a tight line along the back lanes, avoiding the main street where fishermen might notice and ask questions. Brann took point with the shameless confidence of an A-rank who didn't fear witnesses. Sabine walked a pace behind him, spear angled low, steps precise. Kael drifted at the edge like he wasn't part of the group at all—more presence than person.
Ronan led their minds.
He watched windows. He listened for dogs. He tracked the subtle shift of air around corners. The Innkeeper blessing didn't help him here—not directly—but something about it had changed him anyway.
Less noise in his head.
Less hesitation.
His decisions came faster, cleaner, like his instincts had been sharpened on a whetstone.
They reached the net sheds.
The warehouse with the green door sat hunched against the sea like a rotting tooth. Old wood. New padlock. A faint light through a crack in the upper slats. A guard on the roof, just a dark shape against the grey sky.
Kael vanished into the shadow without a word.
Ronan raised two fingers—hold—then a third—wait.
Sabine and Brann froze immediately. Discipline.
Seconds passed.
Then Kael's hand appeared from the alley behind, flashing a simple sign: roof clear.
No sound. No cry. Just done.
Brann's grin returned. He rolled his shoulders like a bull about to charge a gate.
Ronan gave one small nod.
Brann moved.
He didn't kick the green door like a drunk.
He hit it like a siege weapon.
Wood cracked. Lock snapped. The door exploded inward with a boom that ripped silence apart.
Inside—shouts. Scrambling. Surprise.
Brann stepped through the splinters like a storm given legs.
"Gullwatch tax office," he announced loudly, mockery and threat mixed together, and then his axe swung.
Ronan didn't watch the swing.
He used the noise.
He moved through the side hatch with Sabine, slipping into the warehouse's flank as Brann pulled eyes forward. The interior was a maze of crates, nets, and stolen goods stacked into narrow lanes.
Men surged toward Brann with clubs and knives, yelling, trying to overwhelm him with bodies.
Sabine's spear ended that plan.
She planted her feet and became a wall.
The first thug charged—she drove the spear butt into his knee, dropped him, then snapped the spearhead forward into his throat with cold precision. He fell without a heroic sound.
A second tried to rush past her toward Ronan—Sabine pivoted, spear sweeping low to hook his ankle, then pinned him to the floor with her boot and a sharp thrust.
Corridor denial.
No one got through her lane without paying.
Ronan moved behind her, cutting down any man foolish enough to reach around her spear. He didn't waste motion. He didn't posture. He cut tendons, broke grips, ended threats.
The gang wasn't made of cowards.
They were made of hungry men who had learned brutality could be a business.
And that made them dangerous.
A door at the back slammed open.
Smoke hissed.
Someone had kicked over a lantern.
Oil spilled.
Fire crawled across the floor in hungry lines.
"BURN IT!" a voice snarled from deeper inside. "BURN THE WHOLE THING, DON'T LET THEM TAKE IT!"
Desperate.
That meant the boss was close.
Ronan pushed forward through the chaos, following the voice.
A man emerged from behind a stack of crates—tall, broad, wearing a patched coat and a cheap ring on each hand like he wanted to look richer than he was. His eyes were bloodshot, mouth curled in a predator's grin that was too sharp to be stupid.
Darric.
He held a small boy by the collar—some local runner, terrified, feet barely touching the ground. In his other hand, a knife.
"Stop!" Darric shouted, voice cracking with rage and adrenaline. "Stop or I cut him! Stop or I—"
Ronan stopped.
So did Brann, a few paces away, axe dripping, chest rising and falling like he wanted to tear the building down.
Sabine's spear held steady, but her eyes flicked to the child, calculating angles.
Kael appeared in the back shadows like a ghost, but even he didn't move—not with the boy in the center.
Darric's grin widened, triumphant. "That's right," he hissed. "You think you're heroes? You think you—"
Ronan's voice cut through, calm and cold. "You're using a child as a shield."
Darric blinked, thrown off by the lack of fear. "So what?"
Ronan took one step forward, slow, deliberate. "So you're not a boss," he said. "You're a cornered animal."
Darric's knife pressed closer to the boy's throat. The child whimpered.
Brann growled low, rage vibrating.
Ronan didn't look at Brann. He didn't look at Sabine. He looked only at Darric, reading him like an opponent in a duel.
Darric's grip was tight, but his stance was wrong—weight too far back. He was ready to run. The knife hand twitched like he wanted to slash, but he didn't want blood on his hands if he could avoid it.
Desperate and violent, yes.
But still calculating.
Ronan said, "Let him go."
Darric barked a laugh. "Or what? You'll stab me? In front of your A-rank friend?"
Ronan's eyes stayed flat. "No," he said. "In front of your men."
That landed.
Because Darric's gang—what was left of them—were watching. Some bleeding. Some frozen. All of them seeing their boss hide behind a child.
A crack appeared in their loyalty.
Darric felt it too. His grin faltered for a heartbeat.
Ronan stepped closer, voice low enough that it felt personal. "You built this on fear," Ronan said. "But fear only works if people believe you're untouchable."
Darric's jaw tightened. "Shut up."
Ronan tilted his head slightly. "You're touchable."
Darric's eyes flicked toward the fire line crawling across oil. A plan in his gaze—burn, chaos, escape.
Ronan moved before the plan matured.
He threw his cloak.
Not at Darric's face—at the spilled oil line.
The heavy cloth slapped down and smothered flame, cutting the fire's path.
At the same time, Sabine moved.
Not a lunge. Not a reckless thrust.
A precise spear-tip flick that clipped Darric's knife wrist—just enough to shock it open.
The knife fell.
Kael moved like the knife's shadow and caught the boy, yanking him back out of danger in one smooth motion.
And Brann—Brann surged forward like a thunderclap, axe raised.
Darric screamed and shoved a crate, trying to create space.
Ronan stepped into that space instead.
He met Darric's first desperate swing with the flat of his blade, redirected it, and drove his shoulder into Darric's chest. The man staggered, snarling, trying to bite his way free with wild violence.
Not a joke thug.
A man who'd fought in alleys, who'd stabbed before, who didn't panic at blood.
Darric grabbed for another weapon—something hidden under his coat—eyes fever-bright.
Ronan saw the movement. Read it. Countered it.
He hooked Darric's arm, twisted, and slammed him into a support post hard enough to make the wood groan. Darric's breath exploded out. Ronan drove a knee into his thigh, dropped him, then brought his sword to Darric's throat.
Clean.
Controlled.
Finished.
Darric spat blood and laughed weakly. "You think… you win?"
Ronan didn't answer.
Because Darric wasn't done.
With a sudden, desperate snarl, Darric twisted, hand flashing toward Ronan's hip—where a short blade lay sheathed. A sneak attack, born from instinct and spite.
Ronan's eyes narrowed.
He shifted half a step, letting the grab miss, and ended it with one decisive thrust.
Darric's body jerked.
His laugh died in his throat.
He slumped, eyes wide and empty, the fight leaking out of him like steam from a broken pot.
Silence rolled through the warehouse in the wake of his fall.
Brann exhaled slowly, then looked at Ronan—not at the dead boss, but at Ronan himself.
"You're sharper," Brann said quietly.
Ronan glanced at him. "What?"
Brann's brow furrowed as if he couldn't explain it without admitting it unsettled him. "Timing," he said. "Decision speed. Calm under pressure." His gaze flicked down to Ronan's blade, then back up. "Strange for a man carrying a Civic Court blessing."
Ronan didn't have an answer that satisfied either of them.
He only wiped his sword clean and said, "Move."
Because the raid wasn't over until the field was controlled.
Kael was already searching.
He moved through the warehouse's back office—a cramped corner with a desk and a lockbox—and emerged with a bundle of letters tied in twine.
He flipped through them quickly, eyes scanning.
Then he looked up, expression unchanged, but his voice held something colder than before.
"This wasn't a street gang," Kael said.
Brann frowned. "What?"
Kael held up the letters. "Schedules. Payment lists. Territory notes." His gaze flicked toward the dead men. "Recruitment. Discipline rules. They were trying to imitate a guild."
Ronan's jaw tightened.
Control gullwatch. Control supplies. Control fear.
A structure.
Not random violence.
Kael's eyes slid to Ronan, quiet and sharp. "And if it's structured," he added, "it means someone smarter helped build it."
Outside, dawn continued to creep over the sea.
Inside, Ronan stared at the letters and felt the next problem forming—bigger than Darric, deeper than street boys.
He didn't say it aloud.
He didn't need to.
The inn was safe for a night.
But the root they'd cut had veins.