The streets of Crescent City buzzed with post-summoning energy. New recruits were being processed, civilians celebrated the city's continued survival, and gunfighters passed through the cobbled roads in groups—some relaxed, others still on edge from wall duty. Swift moved alone, cloak up, his steps quiet.

  He was headed to the Gray Barrel, the busiest tavern in the city during peak hours. The perfect place for a private conversation, buried under noise and crowd.

  But as he walked, doubts crept in.

  Why am I trusting her?

  He barely knew Inara. Their first meeting had come after a near-death boar ambush. She'd shown up unexpectedly, then vanished before he could ask much. On the wall earlier, she’d been more talkative—but mostly about him. She hadn’t said much about herself. He’d dropped the word blessing without thinking.

  Reckless.

  Could’ve been a trap. Could still be.

  He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

  As he neared the Gray Barrel, Swift slowed and swept the area from across the street. His eyes scanned the alleyways, the corners of buildings, rooftops—any sign of guards or priesthood observers.

  Nothing. No silver robes. No inquisitive stares. No out-of-place loiterers.

  Just a few off-duty workers heading in for a drink.

  Only one person looked suspicious—him.

  Satisfied, he crossed the street, opened the tavern door, and stepped into the hum of voices and clinking mugs.

  The Gray Barrel was alive with noise. Drunken laughter rolled through the common room, layered over the screech of chairs and the occasional thud of a bar brawl being defused with a handshake or a punch.

  He bought a drink—dark, bitter ale—and carried it upstairs.

  Inara was seated in a corner booth overlooking the lower floor, one boot up on the table, her launcher resting flat beneath her bench, out of sight but never out of reach. She didn’t wave him over. Just watched, unreadable.

  Swift approached, taking a breath, then casually asked, “Is this seat taken?”

  Inara looked up, smirked, and played along. “Depends. You buying the next round?”

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  “That depends,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “You going to be less dramatic than you were on the wall?”

  She chuckled. “That wasn’t dramatic. That was fun.”

  They kept up the act for a few more quips before Swift leaned forward, voice low.

  “I need to know more about you.”

  Inara’s smile dimmed slightly. “That’s not usually how these meetings start.”

  “Trust goes both ways,” Swift said. “We’ve talked a lot about me. But I barely know you. And I don’t like walking blind into someone else’s plans.”

  She sighed, swirled her drink, then finally said, “I’ve been here three years. Spent the first two with the military. Left after realizing orders and I don’t mix.”

  “Why?”

  She gave a wry smile. “Let’s just say—‘creative use of firepower’ isn’t appreciated by officers.”

  He raised a brow. “That’s not an answer.”

  “Maybe next time,” she said, deflecting. “I joined the mercenary guild after that. Been doing odd jobs, caravan escorts, and the occasional bounty since.”

  “With a grenade launcher?”

  She grinned. “You’d be amazed how few people want that kind of noise around. Hard to get high-paying jobs when everything explodes. Most people want precision.”

  “Ever think about heading to the capital?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Thought about it. But it’s far. Dangerous. Full of church politics and people who think they’re important. I’m lazy, Swift. Why suffer on the road when the ale here’s decent?”

  Swift nodded.

  Now for the main topic.

  “I appreciate you sharing your background. So, what are—blessings.”

  Inara's gaze sharpened instantly.

  “You're not letting that go, huh?”

  “I’ve read some things,” he said. “Studying it. But I need perspective.”

  She leaned forward. “The church doesn’t talk about how blessings work around here. They barely admit they exist. But the rumor is, only Gun Angels and up are allowed to use them. Because they’re the only ones with enough BP to spare.”

  Swift nodded slowly. “So what happens when you lose BP?”

  “Your tattoo shrinks,” she said. “Visibly. People notice.”

  “And if you give up all of it?”

  Inara hesitated and lowered her voice.

  “Then your tattoo disappears completely. And your weapon? Can’t evolve. Can’t make ammo. It’s dead.”

  Swift’s expression tightened.

  “That’s why no one risks it,” she continued. “Unless they’re becoming priests. Supposedly, the church has gunfighters who retire into priesthood by offering their BP to make blessed objects. Things like the wand they use to detect Corrosion.”

  He remembered the wand from his own arrival.

  “So… it can be transferred.”

  “Yeah. But not reversed.”

  Swift imagined losing his BP. No ammo. No evolution. Just a dead gun. He asked, “Do you know how they do it?”

  Inara raised a brow. “Why do you need to know?”

  “I want to bless my gear. I barely use my BP as it is. I could afford to invest a little.”

  “You sure about that?” she said. “You’re just a Marksman. You’re not made of BP.”

  “I’m not planning to dump all of it. Just enough to make a difference.”

  She studied him for a long moment. Then said, “I don’t know how they do it. Not exactly. But—”

  She tapped the table once, leaned closer.

  “—blessings always involve a symbol. Not drawn, cut. Carved or burned into the item. And they say… it has to mean something. To you.”

  Swift blinked, the words stirring something deep. His mind flashed back to the runes in the book, the strange alignments mirrored thoughts instead of grammar.

  Inara noticed.

  “Whatever just clicked in your head,” she said, “be careful.”

  He nodded slowly, standing.

  “Thanks, Inara.”

  She raised her mug. “And thank you, for the drink.”

  Swift left the tavern a minute later, slipping into the crowd of the street.

  It has to mean something to me.