The dungeon is a living maze.
It opens doors. It closes doors. It changes its mind.
It has floors, halls, rooms, and stairs.
Some places are warm, some are cold, some feel like a held breath.
There are pools that glow, ledges that test your feet, and turns that move when you look away.
The dungeon does not talk with a voice.
It talks with light.
Short words appear in the air, one at a time.
Open.
Close.
Hold.
Wait.
No fight.
People call these lights the core.
No one knows how many cores there are.
Enough to keep the maze alive.
There are safe zones.
You will know one when you see a ring of pale stones on the floor.
Inside the ring the air is warm, the water runs, and monsters will not cross.
A guard might stand at the line and tap it with a boot.
Rules are simple. No fighting. Prices must be clear. Water is free.
People live because of shops.
A shop is a door you can trust.
You walk in tired and scared. You walk out with rope that will not lie to your hand, a lamp that will not smoke you off a ledge, a bandage that will not come loose when you sweat.
Some things in the dungeon have teeth.
Some crawl like dust and eat cloth and thread.
Some move as a wave, not water, only hunger.
You learn to listen.
When the floor hums, when the air tastes like metal and ash, you step faster, or you step back.
Coins here are pale stones that glow in a warm hand.
People call them glow coins.
Shops count them. The dungeon counts them too.
Shops pay rent every day. If you do not pay, the light goes dim.
If you keep your floor clean and your prices fair, the ring glows a little brighter.
Word travels. Feet learn the turn to your door.
You will meet the same faces again and again.
Miners who speak little.
Scouts who look at corners before they look at you.
A seamstress who can mend a strap while a cup fills.
Twins who sell candles and promise to bring a shiny stone.
A guard who keeps the peace.
A lizard that taps the floor twice, trades crystals for salt, and leaves without a sound.
A man with a smile that does not reach his eyes. He counts things that are not his.
People tell many stories about where the dungeon leads.
A market floor that never sleeps.
A beast floor that smells like wet leaves.
A war floor that never forgives.
A treasure floor that does not like to be touched.
Some say there is a network of doors that reach other dungeons.
Some say a city once grew around a door that never closed.
In a place like this, a good shop can be the difference between a scare and a story.
Between a person who quits and a person who comes back with a better knot and a better plan.
This is how our story begins.
A door appears on Floor Three.
Benches on one side. A cracked fountain on the other.
A ring of pale stones, clean and bright.
A line of light writes one word in the air.
Wake.
The door opens to a small room.
A counter.
Empty shelves.
A square hatch for crates.
A lamp that likes to wake when someone steps inside.
The core waits.
It will write short words.
It will watch to see if the person behind the counter can work with less than a sentence.
A person named Ryn will open his eyes on the stone.
He is not a fighter.
He knows rope, lanterns, food packs, simple tools, and simple truths.
He will sweep first.
He will write OPEN in chalk that does not shake.
He will say water is free.
He will count ten percent and pay it, because that is the rule.
He will keep his floor clean so his thoughts stay clean.
People will come.
Hunters with a limp.
Miners with dust in their hair.
A boy who holds a cup with two hands and does not spill.
A woman who asks, can you stitch this while I drink.
A lizard that trades three pink crystals for salt.
A man with a crooked smile who tries to buy with a dead coin.
The ring will shine when trouble touches it.
The lamp will sway when the floor hums.
The hatch will send crates when stock runs low.
Some crates will bring hope.
Some will bring a problem with a black mark on the lid.
The dungeon will whisper the same word again and again.
Soon.
Ryn will keep the door open anyway.
He will learn the people. The people will learn him.
He will sell rope that holds. He will teach a better knot.
He will make a strap for a jar so a boy's ribs do not pay the price.
He will line up lanterns so the glass does not touch glass.
He will add salt to the board, by measure, one small coin.
He will set bundles on the counter when the hall grows loud.
He will be steady when a crowd needs steady.
Some nights the hall will not sleep.
The line will glow.
Fox sized shapes will click against it and stop.
A wave will gather far below that is not water.
The black marked kit will sit under the counter and wait for the moment when waiting is no longer wise.
If the shop holds, the people will hold.
If the people hold, the dungeon listens.
This is the trade that matters more than coins.
A shop is a door you can trust.
Open when it should open…
closed when it must be closed.
This is the dungeon.
This is the door that chose.
This is where Dungeon Rest Stop begins.
And now, the bell at the counter is about to ring.
Someone is at the door.
The first word is already in the air.
Wake.