The Gray Barrel was buzzing with its usual evening clamor—overlapping conversations, chairs scraping, plates clanking, mugs being raised and slammed with satisfaction. It was noisy, a little chaotic, and exactly what Swift needed.

  He sat at a back corner table, dinner in front of him—a simple roasted cut of meat, buttered vegetables, and dark bread. Not bad by tavern standards. Not bad at all.

  As he chewed, he let his thoughts untangle themselves, sorting through the storm of the last two days.

  Leave Crescent City?

  It was the obvious option. The safe play. Finish the helmet, disappear before the Church found another reason to put him under the lens. Abandon the risk, lay low somewhere bigger.

  But as he looked around the tavern—at the lantern-lit walls, the laughter, the warmth—his chest tightened.

  He didn’t want to leave.

  Sure, he could stay and give up on the gear. Let the helmet be an idea, not an asset. But the thought gnawed at him. He hadn’t risked his life against an army of spiders, blacked out doing blessings, and fought tooth and nail for every thread of spider silk just to hang it all up for comfort.

  Good gear means survival. Especially outside the city. If he wanted to take real missions—missions against the Corrosion—an edge was needed. And missions were necessary if he ever wanted Excalibur to evolve. There were no shortcuts for a gunfighter’s growth. No peace without purpose.

  Was stronger gear worth the risk?

  Crescent City life was… good. Safe. Livable. The mercenary jobs were simple. Pay was modest, but consistent. He could teach more—turn it into a stable routine. The recruits respected him, and the instructors clearly trusted him.

  And Lee?

  If he partnered with her, maybe he could get his designs out to others. She could put out a request for silk through the guild—he didn’t need to go back into the spider nightmare. Just the memory made his spine twitch.

  He leaned back in his chair, exhaling. Letting the tension bleed off.

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  As he looked up at the rafters, a face appeared inches from his own.

  “Hey,” Inara said.

  Swift nearly launched himself out of his seat.

  “—Damn it!” he hissed, one hand flying up defensively.

  Inara blinked, then started laughing. “Did I actually scare you? You?”

  Swift rubbed his eyes and scowled. “I was thinking about spiders.”

  She grinned. “Well, that explains it. I’d scream too.”

  He motioned to the empty seat across from him. She plopped into the seat like she owned it.

  They didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, casually, she said, “So. That meeting we had yesterday. The one with our robed friend.”

  Swift gave her a dry look. “Yeah. That one.”

  “No use mentioning the B word,” she added quickly, voice low. “But… I didn’t think anyone would be listening here. I thought this place would be noisy enough.”

  “It usually is,” Swift said. “But maybe we just stick out.”

  She paused. “Huh. You might be right.”

  “I mean… you carry around a launcher like it’s a handbag.”

  “And you’re built like a damn knight carrying a spear.”

  “I don’t want to be close-range,” Swift muttered. “Things keep rushing me. I’d rather pick targets off silently from a distance. But life doesn’t care what I want.”

  Inara shrugged. “Well, I sit back and lob shots. And you punch spiders in the face.”

  “Not by choice.”

  She smirked. “Still. That’s a funny pair. Maybe that’s why they watched us.”

  “I think they’d watch anyone who looked like they were figuring something out.”

  Inara didn’t respond. She just sipped from her mug.

  The conversation drifted. A few more back-and-forths, casual talk, joking about which gunfighters were hopeless, and which ones might survive against a horde of spiders. Eventually, she stood.

  “Well. I’m off. Got an appointment with some sleep.”

  Swift nodded. “Stay safe.”

  “You too, Knight Spearman.”

  And she was gone.

  Swift sat back in his chair after Inara left, watching the flickering lanternlight dance across the tavern walls. He thought about the people he’d come to trust here—Lee, with her steady hands and sharper instincts than she let on. Morrow, always reliable, and a good mentor. And Inara, chaotic but genuine in a way few dared to be.

  He wasn’t alone. Not anymore. Whatever danger the Church posed, whatever secrets they held, Swift had found in Crescent City what mattered just as much—people worth protecting, friendships worth keeping. For the first time here, companionship conquered.

  He didn’t need to rush the helmet.

  No need to push the envelope. His gear could wait. His power could wait. For now, Swift would focus on rebuilding his reputation—with the military, with the Church, with anyone watching from the shadows. Let them see a dependable gunfighter, a teacher, someone not worth watching. Once the heat died down, he could return to his work. But tonight? He walked back to the barracks with purpose—not for evolution, not for power, but for peace.

  Sleep and peace.

  The knock came just after sunrise. Sharp, rhythmic—official.

  Swift groaned, rolling out of bed and blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the barracks window. He opened the door, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  A city guard stood on the other side. Not one he recognized.

  “The commander would like to see you.”