Chapter Seventeen
Beware the man who makes you grin
He learned to hide his teeth within
Ronyn Holt is very good at being liked.
He learned early that charm opens doors faster than force—and keeps them open longer. That people will tell you almost anything if you make them feel clever for doing it.
In Vyrhal, where the air tastes like ash and sweat and desperation, he lets his smile soften just enough to seem harmless. Lets his voice sound relaxed and unfazed. Lets people underestimate him.
It’s a familiar dance. One he learned because the alternative got people killed.
He’s danced it in alleyways and marketplaces, in cells and taverns, in rooms where a wrong word meant a shallow grave.
He steps into Vyrhal’s lower forge quarter with a smile already half-formed, posture loose, hands empty and visible—harmless, if you’re not paying attention. Which most people aren’t. They never look closely at men who laugh easily.
The stone beneath his boots radiates heat like a living thing.
He lets the heat roll over him, lets the noise and iron and forge-smoke swallow his presence, and catalogs the environment without ever turning his head.
Who shouts the orders.
Who begrudges their role.
Who gossips on the job.
By the time anyone notices him, Ronyn already knows exactly who he needs to become.
Ginger Beard strides toward Ronyn, one hand wrapped around a hammer, and the other wrapped around the hilt of the blade at his belt—two fingers on that hand fused together from a bad pour.
“You here to gawk or prove yourself, outsider?” the man growls, lip lifted in a snarl.
Ronyn huffs an easy laugh. “Prove myself—though I’ll admit, watching you smithies is distracting. Puts the ones in Virellin to shame.”
Rule number one: ply them with compliments.
The man’s gaze lingers on Ronyn, as if deciding if he’s talking shit or knows what he’s doing.
Ronyn points loosely to a nearby forge. “That one’s been overheated for a while, my friend. You’ll warp the mold if you pour now,” he says, softening his words so they sound like observation, rather than accusation.
The man takes a step forward, closing the gap between them. “You telling me how to do my job, son?” he growls.
Ronyn waves a dismissive hand and looses a laugh. “Gods, no. I’m too careless for that—I’d fuck it up in a heartbeat.”
Rule number two: prove competency without threat.
The man narrows his eyes. “You a smith?”
“No. But I’ve spent enough time around weapons to know when metal’s being pushed past its patience,” Ronyn says, firmer this time.
The man doesn’t move. Only holds his gaze on Ronyn for a heartbeat longer than comfort allows.
“And enough time around stubborn men to know when to stop talking,” Ronyn adds with a smirk.
Ginger Beard lets out a soft snort.
Almost a laugh.
So Ronyn uses it for leverage.
“If you’ll permit it—just watching. No touching. I won’t slow you down,” he holds his hands up in mock surrender.
Rule number three: defer authority.
“And why would I do that, huh?” Ginger Beard grunts.
“Well, because I’ll be here to labor regardless, may as well let me watch and learn the trade,” Ronyn quips, trying again to loosen the man’s defenses.
The man offers a low hum—considering.
So Ronyn takes the opening he’s been waiting for.
“And because I’ll buy the first round at the tavern when the shift ends,” he says, wagging his eyebrows.
Rule number four: offer value, not submission.
Taverns are where men tell the truth—not because they want to, but because liquor makes honesty feel like bravery. And there’s nothing men love more than puffing out their chests and measuring their dicks.
But Ginger Beard shakes his head.
“Tavern’s full of loud mouths and bad dice. Not for strangers.”
Ronyn adjusts his stance without thinking—weight balanced, shoulders loose. The way men do when they’re ready to fight for what they want. But this isn’t the time for violence.
Ronyn snaps back into character, sucking his teeth, throwing his hands easily to his hips. “I’ve never been one for making noise or rolling dice, anyway. Just a man who loves a cold ale and a good feed,” he says, feigning nonchalance.
Rule number five: don’t be a liability or competition.
He’d learned the hard way that nothing made men turn faster than feeling threatened.
Ginger Beard grunts, huffing in irritation.
“Your shout?” he clarifies.
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 who needs to 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 leans at 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 enough to 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.
Who itches to leave.
But he cuts to Ginger Beard. “I usually like to know a person’s name before I buy them a round,” he quips, loading his expression with false flirtation.
Ginger Beard, face smeared with the black of the volcanic forges, fixes his eyes on Ronyn. And he barks an over-bearing laugh. “Ha! We have ourselves a fuckin’ funny man, gents!”
The crowd erupts in clinking tankards and reactive shouts of men too exhausted to figure out why they’re shouting in the first place.
“Orrin,” Ginger Beard says, offering an open palm and slapping Ronyn heartily on the shoulder. “Welcome to Vyrhal. We’ll get you working the forge at first light. We’ve got a big order to see to. Now, loosen your purse strings, boy. I’m thirsty!”
And with that, the tavern detonates.
“A round of ale on me!” Ronyn declares through the ruckus, but his gaze lands on Jax.
She shakes her head incredulously, digging into her leather satchel and slamming three gold coins on the bar.
Ronyn grabs his amulet, wincing. Could I trouble you for a couple more coppers to buy into cards?
Jax rolls her eyes and smiles sarcastically. She flicks him two coppers from across the bar and returns to her amber liquor.
Because truthfully, Ronyn had no idea how he’d pay.
A sweating tankard of crisp ale is plonked down on the table before him. Orrin.
“You might be an outsider, but it won’t stop us from taking your money. Poker?”
Ronyn knows how this goes: locals bleed the outsiders dry.
But he knows something else, too: nothing disarms the locals more than a full belly and fat pockets.
“Not much of a card man, myself,” Ronyn counters.
Wonky chairs scrape across wooden floors in a rasp that sounds more like a warning, Orrin and his friends already dealing the first hand.
“We’re counting on it, sunshine,” Orrin winks with a thief’s grin.
Ronyn lets the name stick. Names are a kind of ownership, and he doesn’t mind pretending to belong.
For years, Ronyn made a habit of sneaking into illegal card games in Virellin’s Barrier District—counting cards and swiping extra coin from nobles who ventured across The Barrier for games they shouldn’t be playing.
“All right, then. Deal me in,” Ronyn grouses, dragging back a chair.
Ronyn settles into it like he belongs there. The cards are slapped down between tankards—grease-smudged, corners soft from too many hands and not enough washing. Orrin deals with the casual confidence of a man who’s been fleecing unassuming strangers here for years.
Ronyn pulls out the two copper coins and throws them on the table. “This enough to buy me in?” He says it like he has no idea how this works.
“It’ll do,” Orrin grunts, with a gleam in his eyes that says he already knows those coins will be his.
Silver and copper changes hands. Not much. Enough to sting if you lose. Enough to matter if you don’t.
Ronyn watches the table instead of his cards.