Rain still clung to the village like a second skin when Ronan took the boar out back.
The dining room was loud now—maps scraping against tables, Brann's booming laugh bouncing off rafters, Miri scurrying with breakfast bowls while Rowena worked her smile into something steady. It would've been easy to get swallowed by the energy, to let the A-rank's presence become the whole story.
But the inn was a living thing, and living things ran on supplies.
So Ronan did what he always did when the room grew chaotic:
He moved the problem somewhere he could control it.
He dragged the canvas-wrapped carcass through the kitchen and out the rear door into the narrow back space between the inn and the storage shed. Rainwater had carved little channels in the dirt there, carrying salt and grit toward the alley. The overhang gave him a strip of shelter—not much, but enough to keep the table dry.
He set the boar down with a solid thump and rolled his shoulders.
The air back here smelled cleaner than the front—wet wood, brine, and the honest bite of cold. No voices. No eyes. Just the steady percussion of rain on the roof and the distant crash of waves.
He preferred it.
He preferred anything that could be measured.
Ronan laid out his tools with the same care he used before a raid pull. Knife. Bone hook. Clean cloth. Salt. Bucket of hot water from the kitchen. Another bucket for waste. Lantern positioned to cut shadows out of his working space.
He didn't need magic.
He needed light, order, and an edge that could be trusted.
When he drew his knife, the steel looked plain—utilitarian—until it moved. Then it became clear why veterans respected simple blades.
It didn't hesitate.
The Innkeeper blessing hummed faintly as he set the edge to hide.
Not a voice in his ear. Not a spell casting sparks.
A nudge in his bones—there, not there.
His first cut ran clean along the boar's belly, shallow enough to preserve the hide, deep enough to open without tearing. The skin separated like a curtain, and Ronan worked fast to keep blood and dirt from smearing into meat.
He pulled organs free with practiced efficiency, keeping his hands clean, wiping often, never letting mess become contamination.
The blessing sharpened his attention to small wrongness: a patch of grit embedded in the shoulder where the boar had rolled; a bruise line that told him Brann had hit it like he meant to end a war; a sour hint at the edge of one flank where storage or travel had started to turn the meat.
Ronan's jaw tightened.
He trimmed that section out immediately and tossed it into the waste bucket.
No sentiment. No wishing.
If you fed people rot, you paid for it later in sickness and lost trust.
A bootstep crunched behind him.
Ronan didn't flinch. He didn't turn.
He just shifted his lantern a fraction so whoever approached would be lit before they got close.
A lean man stood under the overhang edge, cloak damp, posture relaxed but alert. Twin knives sat at his hips. His eyes weren't on Ronan's face.
They were on Ronan's hands.
"Didn't expect the inn to come with a butcher," the man said.
Ronan kept cutting. "Didn't expect an A-rank to bring half a forest."
The man's mouth twitched. "Kael," he introduced, like a habit more than courtesy. "B-rank. Scout."
Ronan nodded once. "Ronan."
Kael stepped closer, careful not to get in the splash zone. He watched the blade travel through joint, not bone—clean twist, tendon give, meat separating without ragged tears.
"Your cuts are… tidy," Kael said, approval hidden under restraint.
"Veteran habit," Ronan replied. "And I don't like wasting food."
Kael's eyes narrowed slightly as Ronan peeled the hide back in a smooth sheet, leaving it intact.
"Keeping the skin," Kael noted.
"Might sell it," Ronan said. "Might use it. Depends what the inn needs."
Kael made a small sound—half impressed, half amused. "You think like a quartermaster."
"I run an inn," Ronan said flatly. "Same problem. Different enemies."
Kael's gaze flicked to the trimmed-off piece Ronan had discarded. "That one was going," he observed.
Ronan nodded. "Almost. Not enough to smell for a normal cook. Enough to become trouble."
Kael looked at him more directly now. "That your blessing?"
Ronan didn't answer immediately. He separated rib from spine with controlled pressure, then wiped his blade and said, "It helps me notice what I should've noticed anyway."
Kael's eyes lingered on the knife work a moment longer, then he stepped back toward the door. "I'll tell Brann not to pretend he killed it cleanly," he said dryly.
Ronan snorted. "Please do."
From inside, Brann's voice boomed through the kitchen window like thunder trapped in wood. "OI! RONAN! DON'T YOU DARE THROW OUT THE FAT!"
Ronan didn't look up. "I'M NOT!"
Brann laughed like a man delighted by conflict.
Kael's mouth curved faintly. "A-rank behavior," he murmured, and slipped back inside.
Ronan returned to his work.
He broke the boar down into purpose.
Shoulder and rib for stew and slow cook. Lean haunch for slices. Fat rendered for flavor and lamp oil if needed. Bones saved for stock. Off-cuts turned into tomorrow's hash.
He didn't cook like he used to during raids—dumping everything into a pot and calling it "good enough." He cooked like an innkeeper with an audience that included A-ranks, B-ranks, and the village that needed proof.
He carried the usable cuts inside and hung them in the kitchen where air could flow and flies couldn't. He rinsed his hands, scrubbed the table out back, salted the hide lightly, and finally returned to the hearth.
The kitchen greeted him with heat and routine.
Miri was darting between dining room and pass window, cheeks flushed from speed, voice clear as she called orders. Rowena stood in the dining room, smiling, pouring tea, taking coin, keeping the room warm even while the weather tried to freeze it.
Ronan didn't call her back. He didn't drag her into work.
He let her do what she was best at.
He checked spices next.
Marla's jars lined the shelf now, sealed and labeled. Salt. Pepper. Thyme. Bay leaf. A small pouch of smoked paprika that smelled like warmth.
He didn't grab everything. He chose three.
Simple. Repeatable.
He set a pot on the hearth and started stock: bones, onion, a handful of herbs, clean water, time.
Then stew: sear meat first, build flavor, deglaze, simmer slow. Thickened lightly with flour, not enough to become glue, enough to make broth cling. Pickled onion garnish for sharpness. Fried bread in rendered fat for crisp edges and comfort.
No side effects. No flashy "buff."
Just a quiet sense of the inn nudging toward better.
Ronan felt it in timing—when to add herbs, when to skim foam, when to let a simmer settle instead of boiling wild. His proficiency was low, but the blessing seemed to reward discipline.
He plated the first bowls and sent them out.
Rowena appeared at the kitchen doorway a few minutes later, slipping in between service moments. Her apron was dusted with flour. Her hair was tied back, messy but determined.
She looked at the hanging cuts. The organized stations. The clean stock pot. The neat stack of bowls.
Then she looked at Ronan, eyes wide with reluctant awe.
"You… you really butchered that whole thing alone," she whispered.
Ronan glanced up briefly. "It needed doing."
Rowena hovered, unsure where to put her hands. "Brann said—he said you cooked during raids. I thought he was joking."
"He exaggerates," Ronan said.
Rowena's horns twitched. "That didn't look exaggerated."
Ronan set a lid on a pot. "Go," he reminded gently. "Front of house."
Rowena hesitated. "I just wanted to—" Her voice softened. "To see."
Ronan's gaze held hers a moment, steady but not unkind. "You saw. Now go keep the room calm."
Rowena swallowed, nodded, and slipped back out—relieved, intimidated, guilty all at once.
Ronan watched her go for half a heartbeat, then returned to the pots.
When the stew hit the tables, the dining room changed.
Not loud at first. Just attentive.
Brann took his bowl like he planned to wrestle it, shoved a spoonful into his mouth, and paused mid-chew.
Then his eyes widened.
He stared down at the stew like it had committed a crime.
Ronan watched from the pass window without expression.
Brann swallowed slowly and bellowed, "WHAT IN THE GODS IS THIS?"
Rowena stiffened at the counter.
Miri nearly tripped.
Ronan didn't flinch. "Food," he called back. "Eat it."
Brann slammed his spoon into the bowl with delight. "It's GOOD!"
Laughter rippled through the room, relief blooming with it.
Brann jabbed the spoon toward the kitchen. "This is better than the sludge you fed us in Ironroot!"
Ronan's mouth twitched. "You said you liked that stew."
"I said it kept me alive!" Brann roared. "This makes me want to live twice!"
The A-rank's team ate with different styles—Sabine neat and controlled, Kael quiet and observant, the healer sipping broth like she was measuring its effect.
After a bowl, the healer blinked slowly, then murmured to Sabine, "I feel… less dragged."
Sabine's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her own body. "Cleaner focus," she said quietly.
Kael didn't speak, but his shoulders eased, and he looked faintly less sharp around the edges—as if the road's tension loosened.
Brann leaned back after his second bowl and rolled his shoulders like testing for ache. "Huh," he grunted. "Road fatigue's not biting as hard."
Ronan stepped out briefly, wiping his hands. "You're tired," he said. "You ate hot stew. That's normal."
Sabine studied him. "Maybe. But it's cleaner than normal. Usually I feel… fog."
Ronan shook his head. "Brann leads like a charging bull. Hard travel makes anyone foggy."
Kael finally spoke, dry. "Hard road. Hard leader."
Brann grinned unapologetically. "Keeps you alive."
Ronan didn't argue. He just looked toward the hearth.
The fire burned steady, warm, almost… pleased.
Maybe the inn's blessing wasn't about making people stronger.
Maybe it was about reducing friction—less waste in body, less drag in mind.
Not a buff.
A polish.
Small improvements that mattered most to people who lived by performance.
That thought clicked into place in Ronan's mind like a lock.
If the inn improved adventurers—if they slept better, recovered faster, stayed sharper—then adventurers would tolerate rules. They'd accept discipline. They'd pay more. They'd come back.
The inn wouldn't just be a roof.
It would be an asset.
A hub.
Ronan returned to the kitchen and kept the rhythm steady until bowls slowed and the room settled into satisfied quiet.
When he finally cleaned his station, scrubbed the board, and hung remaining cuts, Rowena slipped into the kitchen again—careful, as if asking permission without words.
Her eyes flicked to the meat, then to the pantry shelves, then to the dining room where Brann's team spread maps like they owned the world.
"They're… really staying," she whispered.
"Yes," Ronan said, wiping his hands.
Rowena's fingers twisted in her apron. "Then we need— staples. More flour. Salt. Lamp oil. Bedding if we fix more rooms." She swallowed. "But… but with them here… long term… we might actually—"
Her voice cracked on the hope.
Ronan's gaze softened a fraction. "We might," he agreed.
Rowena blinked fast, ashamed of the emotion. "It's just… I can see it. For the first time."
Ronan leaned on the counter, already thinking in lists. "We stock smart now. We don't drown under demand. Brann's team brings coin, but they also burn supplies fast."
Rowena nodded, eyes bright with nervous excitement. "We can improve. Pay down debts. Fix rooms. Maybe even hire help."
Ronan nodded once. "And if the inn becomes valuable enough," he said quietly, "people will try harder to take it."
Rowena's smile faltered. Her gaze drifted, involuntary, toward the kitchen corner—toward the sealed cellar door under boards and silence.
Ronan saw it.
He didn't mention it.
Not yet.
But as he banked the fire and listened to the dining room's low voices, he felt the inn's faint pressure again—like a draft that didn't belong.
A secret under the floor.
A lock newer than the wood.
And a scratch that meant someone else had tried to get in.