The morning rush burned itself out the way storms did—loud, messy, and suddenly gone.
By late morning the dining room had thinned to a handful of lingering mugs and a few locals nursing tea like it was a luxury. The hearth still crackled, but the air felt less frantic. Less braced. Rowena moved behind the counter with her shoulders still tense, but her steps were slower now, no longer sprinting from disaster to disaster.
Ronan stayed in the kitchen.
He cleaned like a man who'd learned that "later" was how rot took hold.
He scrubbed the cutting board until the old stink lifted. He boiled water again, poured it through cracked spouts, rinsed everything that touched mouths. He reset the stations: knives here, bowls here, flour sealed and off the damp, fish brine separate, herbs dry.
The Innkeeper blessing hummed at the edges of his awareness—less like a voice and more like a hand on his shoulder, nudging him toward problems before they became crises. A smear of mold under a shelf. A hairline crack in a jar that would spoil whatever went inside. A damp patch that wasn't just damp—it was seepage.
When he finished, the kitchen looked… the same, if you didn't know what to look for.
But it worked.
Rowena hovered in the doorway, holding a rag, unsure what to do with herself now that she wasn't allowed to drown in six jobs at once.
"I can help," she offered, too quickly.
Ronan wiped his hands and shook his head. "Front of house," he reminded.
Rowena's cheeks warmed. "Right. Yes. I'm—" She forced a smile. "I'm being charming."
"That's your weapon," Ronan said.
Rowena blinked like she didn't hear compliments often. "My… weapon?"
"People stay where they feel welcome," Ronan said. "You do that naturally. Let it work."
Rowena nodded, a little shaky, then retreated back into the dining room like she was obeying orders she secretly liked.
Ronan pulled on his cloak and grabbed a small coin pouch.
Now came the part that didn't involve knives or boiling water.
Supplies.
If the inn was going to survive a year, it couldn't run on panic shopping and desperate substitutions. It needed materials. Consistent stock. Predictable costs.
He stepped outside into Gullwatch's wind.
The village market wasn't a grand plaza. It was a crooked lane near the docks where awnings were tied to posts and crates turned into tables. Fish smell clung to everything. Salt crusted the wood. People shouted prices like they were trying to intimidate the sea into paying.
Ronan moved through the lane with calm purpose, eyes taking inventory the way they did in a dungeon: exits, angles, threats.
A vegetable vendor with dirt under his nails eyed him and immediately brightened.
"Fresh root veg! Best in Gullwatch!" he called, then his gaze flicked to Ronan's sword and the way he stood, and the brightness shifted into calculation. "For you? Special price."
Ronan stopped. Looked at the roots. Felt the Innkeeper tug—a faint warning at the edges.
Not rot. Not spoilage.
Just… overpriced.
"How much?" Ronan asked.
The vendor named a number that would've been insulting in Greyhaven.
Ronan didn't flinch. He just tilted his head. "That's not a special price," he said mildly. "That's a robbery."
The vendor bristled. "Everything costs more out here. Roads are dangerous. Boats sink. You want to eat, you pay."
Ronan nodded once. "True." He picked up one root, inspected it, set it down again. "But you're charging me a danger tax twice."
The man's eyes narrowed.
Ronan's voice stayed even. "I'll buy in bulk. Weekly. Same day, same time. You give me a stable rate. You get predictable coin."
The vendor hesitated.
Ronan added, "And I pay today."
That last part mattered. Ronan saw it in the way the man's shoulders loosened.
"Who are you buying for?" the vendor asked, suspicious now.
Ronan didn't answer immediately. He watched the man's face closely. "Why does it matter?"
The vendor's gaze slid away. "It just does."
Ronan felt the tug again—this time not from rot, but from something social. Something sour. The market had its own spoilage: reputation.
He didn't push yet. He bought a small amount anyway, paid clean coin, and moved on.
The next stall was grains and dry beans. The woman behind it didn't even look up when he approached. When he spoke, she finally lifted her eyes, saw him, and her mouth tightened.
"No credit," she said before he asked anything.
Ronan blinked once. "I wasn't asking for credit."
She waved toward the sacks. "Prices are posted. You want it, you pay. No tabs."
Ronan kept his tone neutral. "Who runs tabs here?"
The woman snorted. "Fools."
Ronan's eyes flicked to a note board behind her with names scratched into it—small marks, amounts owed.
Rowena's name was on it.
So was the amount.
Ronan's jaw tightened. It wasn't just a tab. It was a wound that kept reopening.
He moved on, letting the pattern reveal itself.
At the oil stall, the merchant overcharged by a clean fifty percent and didn't even try to hide it. At the cloth seller, the man refused to sell anything "in bulk." At the herb stand, the girl behind it whispered, "Not for that inn," and looked away as if ashamed.
By the time Ronan reached the spice and dry goods corner, he had a clear picture.
Rowena wasn't just "late."
She was marked.
A woman's voice cut through the noise—calm, firm, and not trying to please anyone.
"Don't touch the jars with wet hands," she scolded a boy reaching for cinnamon. "You want it? You pay for it. Or you go."
Ronan turned.
The stall was neat. Too neat for Gullwatch's chaos. Glass jars lined in rows, labels clean, sacks stacked evenly. The woman running it looked young—mid-twenties, maybe—dark hair braided tight, sleeves rolled up. Her eyes were sharp and steady, the kind of eyes that counted coin and didn't forgive missing ones.
She caught Ronan looking and met his gaze without flinching.
"Buying?" she asked.
"Yes," Ronan said. "Dry goods. Spices. Flour, if you've got it."
"I've got it," she replied. "You paying today or trying to make me feel sorry?"
Ronan's mouth twitched. "Today."
That earned him a fraction of respect—tiny, but visible.
She gestured. "Marla Quill," she introduced, like her name was a contract.
"Ronan Kerr."
Marla's eyes flicked over him—sword, posture, calluses. "Not from here," she decided.
"No," Ronan agreed.
"Here's how it works," Marla said bluntly. "I don't do tabs longer than a week. I don't do 'I'll pay when I can.' And I don't do pity."
Ronan nodded. "Good."
Marla blinked at that, surprised. "Good?"
"I'm not here to beg," Ronan said. "I'm here to set a supply line."
Marla's gaze sharpened. "For who?"
Ronan didn't dodge it this time. "The Winking Widow."
Marla's expression changed instantly—tightening, a flicker of irritation, and something like resignation.
"No," she said.
Ronan held her gaze. "Why?"
Marla's jaw worked. "Because she's sweet, and she's a disaster. She's late. She forgets. She smiles until you feel like an ogre for asking about money. Then she disappears into the kitchen and you don't see coin for weeks."
Ronan didn't argue the description. He'd seen Rowena's apologetic kindness. He'd seen how it turned into chaos.
"I'm not Rowena," Ronan said.
Marla's eyes narrowed. "No. You're the new man who thinks he can fix the inn by standing there with a serious face."
Ronan leaned closer, voice low enough it didn't carry. "I already fixed the breakfast."
Marla hesitated. "What?"
Ronan didn't smile. He just slid a list onto her counter—a written order, clean and specific. Quantities. Weekly schedule. A controlled payment plan.
Marla read it fast, eyes darting. Her brows lifted slightly despite herself.
"This is… organized," she muttered.
"It will stay that way," Ronan said. "And you'll bill to my name. Not hers."
Marla looked up sharply. "You want to put your name on her supply line."
"I do," Ronan said.
Marla studied him for a long moment like she was trying to find the con.
"That makes you responsible," she said finally.
Ronan nodded. "Yes."
Marla exhaled. "You're either brave or stupid."
"Both," Ronan replied.
That earned him a small, reluctant snort.
Marla reached under her counter and pulled out a thin ledger of her own. "Fine," she said. "Starter crate. One week. You pay half upfront today, half on delivery next week. No late excuses. No 'the sea was windy.'"
Ronan nodded. "Agreed."
Marla tapped his order list. "And if you want this flour at that price, you take the beans too. Bundling. I need to move stock before damp season."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "Bundling," he echoed. "Good."
Marla blinked again, thrown off by how easily he accepted it. "You negotiate like you've done this."
Ronan slid coin across the counter. "I negotiated with monster-filled tunnels," he said. "Merchants are easier."
Marla's eyes flicked to his face, then away. "Don't get cocky. I'll still ruin you if you don't pay."
"Fair," Ronan said.
Marla took the coin and wrote his name with a firm hand. Ronan Kerr — Weekly Supply.
One line, and suddenly the inn had oxygen.
Ronan moved on with the same methodical pressure.
He found Old Jory at the fishmongers—an older man with skin like weathered rope and hands that moved with practiced speed over scales and hooks. His stall smelled strongly of the sea, but the fish was fresh. Clean.
Jory glanced up, eyes crinkling. "Don't recognize you."
Ronan nodded once. "New."
"Then don't block my line," Jory grumbled, then his gaze shifted past Ronan, toward the village lane like he was expecting someone. "Rowena didn't send you, did she?"
Ronan hesitated. "I'm working for her."
Jory's knife paused. Something tired passed over his face.
"Aye," he muttered. "So she finally did it. Asked for help."
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "You knew her husband?"
Jory's jaw tightened. "Good man. Built that inn with his bare hands and too much optimism." He resumed cutting, but his movements were sharper now. "Tell Rowena I'm not giving credit."
"I'm not asking for credit," Ronan said.
Jory's eyes flicked up, suspicious. "Then what are you asking?"
"A deal," Ronan replied. "Weekly orders. Clean payment schedule. But I know she owes you."
Jory let out a harsh breath. "Owes me enough that my wife threatened to throw me into the sea if I added one more tab." He glanced toward the inn's direction. "I don't hate Rowena. But I can't drown with her."
Ronan nodded. "Then don't."
Jory blinked at that, thrown off.
Ronan leaned closer. "You sell to me. Under my name. Paid on pickup. No tab." He paused. "And if you want to help without bleeding, you can add extra fish per order. Not charity. Efficiency."
Jory's brows furrowed. "Efficiency?"
"You've got off-cuts. Small fish that won't fetch full price," Ronan said. "Add them to my order, I'll use them for stock and stew. It improves the inn's meals without increasing cost too much. And it reduces waste."
Jory stared at him, then barked a rough laugh. "You talk like a Craft Court accountant."
Ronan's mouth twitched. "I'm an innkeeper now. I have to."
Jory looked toward the road, then back, eyes softer. "Fine," he grumbled. "No credit. But… I'll toss in extra. A couple small ones. Not every order. Don't get greedy."
Ronan nodded. "Fair."
"And tell Rowena," Jory added, voice gruff, "I'm glad she's got someone. She's been trying to carry it like she's built of stone."
Ronan felt that settle in his chest like weight and purpose. "I'll tell her."
With Marla's dry goods and Jory's fish secured, Ronan arranged a small cart—two boys with a handbarrow, coin paid upfront—to bring the starter crate and fish back to the inn.
He watched them load carefully.
He also watched the market's eyes.
Whispers followed him now. Not loud. Not obvious.
But present.
A vegetable vendor leaned close to another and muttered, "He's buying for the Widow."
A cloth seller's mouth tightened. "Under his name?"
Marla met Ronan's eyes once as she sealed a sack and said quietly, "You should know… some people won't like this."
Ronan's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
Marla hesitated, then her voice lowered. "The inn's been… discouraged."
"Discouraged," Ronan repeated.
Marla's jaw clenched. "Someone put pressure on merchants. Not everyone—some are just angry about being owed. But some… some were told to overcharge. Or to refuse. To make sure the Winking Widow stayed weak."
Ronan's stomach turned cold.
"Who?" he asked.
Marla shook her head once, quick. "I don't know names. Only that when certain men walk through the market, people suddenly remember they don't want trouble."
Ronan stared out over the market lane—the awnings, the shouting, the sea beyond like a blade.
Blacklisted.
Not just by debt, but by intent.
He felt the innkeeper blessing hum in his bones again, not warm now, but alert—like a hearth that had sensed a draft and braced against it.
Ronan took the sealed sacks from Marla and lifted them onto the handbarrow.
He kept his face calm.
But inside, the raid captain in him had already started drawing a new map.
Someone was trying to starve the inn.
And if someone was doing that, it meant the Winking Widow wasn't just struggling.
It was being hunted.