Ronyn nods once—easy, relaxed, uncaring.Or so it would seem.
The man pauses, gray-green eyes trained on Ronyn’s. Calculating, measuring.
But Ronyn doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Sincerity isn’t found in averted gazes.
But Ginger Beard breaks first, drawing his eyes away, looking for something—approval, maybe. Or perhaps…someone.
Because Ginger Beard isn’t the one in charge. He’s the loudest, not the most powerful.
Ginger Beard’s eyes land on a man, and everything makes sense.
Power sits two stations down—with a quiet man, scar along his jaw, hands steady even when the tension’s thick. The others glance at him before they adjust their pace. Seek him out for confirmation of a good pour.
Ronyn files it all away.
People think charm is about being liked.But they’re wrong.
It’s about knowing whoneedsto like you—and who doesn’t matter at all.
Ronyn doesn’t look. He holds—relaxed, steady, unfazed. As if nothing is riding on this at all.
“After the shift,” the man finally allows, receiving a nod from his superior. “But don’t fucking touch anything, and have your coin ready.”
And there it is.
Rule number six: make them feel like it was their choice.
People like to believe that the invitation is theirs to give.
Ronyn lets them keep that illusion. It costs him nothing.
And gives him everything.
The tavern leansat the edge of the forge quarter like a bad decision everyone keeps making anyway.
Low-ceilinged. Broad-shouldered. Built from the same black stone as the forges, its walls weeping warmth long after the hammers have stilled. Smoke clings to the rafters, trapped there by years of laughter, sweat, and things people never bothered to confess sober.
Ronyn smells it before he sees it—ale gone sour, meat charred past tenderness, bodies packed too close together after a day spent earning enough coin to drink here, only to repeat it all again tomorrow.
This is where truth loosens.
Inside, the noise hits him all at once. Not the disciplined thunder of the forges, but something messier—voices overlapping, arguments half-born and half-forgotten, tankards slamming hard enough to bruise wood. Men with burned hands and scarred arms cluster around rough-hewn tables, shoulders knocking, laughter obnoxious and loud.
Jax is already at the bar.
She sits with her back to the wall, boots propped casually on the rung of the chair beside her, hood lowered just enoughto shadow her eyes. A blade rests within easy reach, though no one’s foolish enough to comment on it. The space around her is subtly clear—no crowding, no accidental brushes.
Smart girl.
She locks eyes with Ronyn, but they make a silent agreement to remain separate—wider reach to listen in to spilled secrets from loose lips.
Ronyn clocks the room in a single sweep.
Who drinks fast.
Who drinks slow.
Who doesn’t want to return home.
