Cold stone under my hands. A low blue glow breathing along the walls. The air smelled like wet rock and old coins.
I sat up and listened. Drip… drip… somewhere down the corridor. No wind, no street sounds, no sky… only the quiet weight of a place that felt deep and alive.
A thin line of light rose in front of me. It hung there like chalk in the air, then shaped a word.
"Wake."
My mouth was dry. "Who is there."
The light shifted.
"Core."
I stood, careful with my balance. "Where am I."
"Dungeon."
The word dropped inside me like a stone in a well. No splash, just depth.
"Why me."
"Merchant."
My name is Ryn. Back home I worked in a small supply store. Rope, lanterns, food packs, simple things that fix a day. I am not a fighter. I know prices and knots and the look on a face that needs help but does not know what to ask for.
"Show me," I said.
The line of light drifted down the corridor. I followed. Stone underfoot, smooth from many steps. The blue glow crawled along the walls like veins in glass.
We came to an archway. A ring of pale stones marked the floor. Benches lined one side. A cracked fountain waited on the other. As I stepped across the ring, warmth touched my skin like a hand.
"Safe," the light wrote.
Beyond the benches stood a door set into the rock. No handle, no keyhole. Dark wood with a soft sheen, as if it had drunk oil long ago.
"For me," I asked.
"Shop."
I set my palm on the wood. The grain shifted under my fingers. Lines of light ran out from my hand and drew a small sign in the center that I did not know, but somehow understood. Something clicked inside. The door eased open like it had been waiting for that exact touch.
It was a room. Not large, not small. A counter across the front. Shelves on both walls. A narrow path behind the counter, and a square hatch in the back wall, just big enough for a crate. The floor was swept. A single lamp woke as I stepped in and poured warm light over empty wood.
The light wrote above the counter.
"Assigned."
"To me," I said.
"Ryn Havers."
I let out a breath I had been holding. A counter is a kind of shore. People bring their storms to it. You listen, sort the noise, hand them something that floats.
"What do I sell," I asked.
"Supply. Food, water, light, rope, basic gear."
"I do not have any of that."
"Start."
The hatch in the back wall made a soft sound. I pressed my hand against it and pushed. It slid up a little and stopped. Cool air breathed through the gap.
"You hear me like this," I asked.
"Requests. Short."
"How do I get stock."
"Crate. Soon."
I counted the shelves. Bottom, middle, top. Five boards on each wall. A peg rail by the door. A broom in the corner, which made me smile. Even in another world, a shop needs a broom.
I swept. Slow strokes. Dust gathered at the threshold. The motion calmed me. Clean floor, clear mind. A stranger steps into your space and feels what you feel. If the room is scattered, the thoughts are scattered.
The fountain coughed. Water slipped over the lip and kept going. I found a clay cup under the counter and filled it. The water tasted like cold stone. It set well.
"What floor is this," I asked. "What rules."
"Floor three. Safe zone. No fight. Display price. Rent, daily."
"What percent."
"Ten."
I looked up at the ceiling and let my jaw hang for a moment. "That is a lot."
The light hovered, calm and steady.
"Do I get a sign," I asked.
"Sign."
A thin board slid up from a slot at the counter's edge. Smooth wood, a stick of black chalk tucked into a notch. I set the board where people would see it and wrote with a slow hand so the letters would not look afraid.
REST STOP
OPEN
Footsteps came from the corridor, light at first, then more. Boots, a dented shield tapping a strap, a tired laugh that stopped when the owner remembered the walls could listen. Four people stepped into the safe zone. Two carried spears. One wore the shield. The last carried a pack that sagged.
The spear woman's hair stuck to her cheek. She looked at the benches, the fountain, the door, then at me.
"Is this a shop," she asked.
"It is," I said.
"What do you sell," the shield bearer asked.
"What do you need," I said.
They all gave the same small, tired smile. The kind that lifts one corner first.
The spear woman came closer. Her eyes flicked to the empty shelves, then back to my face.
"Food," she said. "Water. Thread. If you have balm, we will take balm. If you have a slow lamp, we will take that too."
"Crate is on the way," I said. "Sit, drink, breathe."
They took the benches like people who had held their bones too tight. The fountain ran stronger, as if it liked the work. The woman filled cups and passed them around. They drank careful first, then deeper.
The light over the counter blinked.
"Crate."
The hatch had lifted more. A box sat half in and half out, wrapped with rough cord and stamped with the same sign the door had shown me. I pulled it through and set it down. The knot was neat. My hands knew it. A twist, a pull, the lid came free.
Plain things lay inside, the kind that look like hope when you need them. Hard bread in paper. A small jar of thick balm that smelled like pine and smoke. A roll of clean bandage. A coil of rope, thumb thick. Three tin lanterns with clear glass. A tin of oil. A packet of needles and thread. Four small flasks with tight stoppers. Two sacks of dried fruit. A handful of pale stones that glowed a little when I touched them.
"Glow coins," the light wrote.
I rolled one across my palm. Smooth, a soft heart of light, the weight of a promise.
"Prices," I said.
The air wrote a simple list. Clear numbers. Fair. Not cheap, not a trick. It felt like a good handshake.
I set the bread out. I placed the balm and bandage beside it. I lined the lanterns in a row and set the oil near them. I put the flasks where a thirsty eye would see them. I coiled the rope neat. My hands found an old rhythm. The counter turned from empty wood into a place where a day could turn for the better.
The spear woman came close again. Up close I saw a thin cut at her hairline and the steady way she held her shoulders to keep from shaking.
"What is your name," she asked.
"Ryn," I said.
"I am Tella," she said. "We pay fair. We do not ask for gifts."
"You will get fair," I said.
She tapped the balm with two fingers. "This first."
I opened the jar and set it down. She took that, a roll of bandage, and two flasks. The shield bearer chose a lantern and rope. The pack carrier picked bread and fruit. The other spearman bought oil. They counted coins on the counter, the pale light warming under skin. I counted with them. No rush. No fuss. Just hands and trust.
When we were done, Tella set three small coins aside. "For the water," she said.
"The water is free," I said. "Always."
She met my eyes for a breath, then tucked the coins away. "Thank you," she said.
They ate on the bench. They fixed small things. They spread balm and wrapped a cut. Their faces eased. When they stood, Tella touched the counter with her fingertips, like greeting a person.
"Keep this open," she said.
"That is the plan," I said.
They left with the careful walk of people who have more ground to cover. The blue glow took them. The room felt larger after they were gone. The counter felt warm where her fingers had touched it.
"Sale," the light wrote. "Rent due at rest."
"When is rest," I asked.
"Later."
I laughed. It sounded human in a place that had not heard many. I stacked the coins in a shallow drawer. I wiped the counter and set the sign where it caught the eye.
"Do you have a name," I asked. "Core is a title."
There was a small pause, like a breath before a word.
"Thyra."
I said it out loud. It sat firm in the mouth. "All right, Thyra. I will keep this place open. You keep the walls from eating my customers."
The dot hovered. If light could look amused, it did.
A soft scrape came from the hatch. I leaned over the counter and peered behind the empty crate. Something round peeked out. Not quite stone, not quite moss. Two small amber eyes blinked at me.
"Hello," I said.
It made a sound like sand brushed by a hand and rolled closer. It nudged a coin that had drifted near the edge. The coin slid back to safety. The little thing patted it into place, then sat very straight, proud.
"Do you clean," I asked.
The dot wrote one word.
"Pebble."
Pebble patted the counter. The fine dust there vanished. The wood gleamed.
"Well then," I said. "Welcome to work."
Pebble made the pleased sound again and set another coin beside the first. The two coins touched. Their light warmed, like twins who liked to sit close.
I stood behind the counter and watched the doorway. The safe zone lay quiet. The hall glowed its steady blue. The fountain kept up its thin song. Pebble stacked a third coin with great care. Thyra's dot floated like a small star that did not plan to sleep.
I picked up the chalk and drew a short line under OPEN. A small underline. A promise.
Then I waited for the next set of footsteps.