Morning felt gentle. The lamp burned steady, the blue glow along the hall woke a little, the fountain kept its soft talk with the stone. Pebble checked the coin drawer like a tiny accountant, one paw at a time, then made a pleased click when the stacks sat neat.
I added one more line to the price board.
Flavor cup, one small coin.
The jar of pink crystals went where the light could catch them. Not everyone carries a flask, but most people want one sweet mouthful before they go back into the dark.
"Thyra," I said, "I need a small cupboard, with a simple lock. I want a place for markers and notes."
The dot brightened. The hatch slid and offered a wooden box with two shelves and a brass key tied with string. I set it behind the counter where my hand would find it without looking. Pebble stared at the key like it was treasure.
Footsteps came early. Two twins with muddy boots skidded into the safe zone, all elbows and grins. They tried to sell me a pouch of teeth again. I still did not buy teeth. They sighed in perfect time, then both pointed at the crystals.
"What are those," the girl asked.
"Flavor stones," I said. "Drop one in water, it tastes like a sweet flower day. One small coin for a cup."
They traded a coin back and forth like it was hot, then paid and watched the stone fizz. Their faces changed at the first sip. A real laugh, bright and quick. They left a second coin on the counter without a word.
"Leave some for us next time," the boy said.
"I will," I said, and meant it.
A crew of miners came next. Dusty, quiet, tired in the joints. One woman had a split knuckle. She picked balm and a bandage, her friend chose rope and a lantern they would share. They drank water with both hands on the cup, sat one minute, and left with slow careful steps. At the ring of pale stones, each of them touched the line. A small thanks for a promise kept.
The morning moved like that, in little waves. A man in a long coat bought a needle and thread and did not explain why. A young woman bought oil, then a flavor cup, then told me a short story about a ledge that was too narrow and a friend who talks when afraid. A guard in a brown tabard stopped at the ring and lifted a slate.
"Inspection," he said. "Safe zone rules."
"Come in," I said.
He stayed at the line. He read the sign, checked the price board, glanced at the shelves. "Water is free," he asked.
"Always," I said.
He wrote something, tapped the ring with his boot, and nodded. "Keep this line clean. Keep prices where a tired eye can read them. The floors below are restless. If the wall speaks to you, listen."
He left as neatly as he came. The fountain seemed louder for a breath, then settled.
Near midday, the man with the crooked smile returned. He walked like his feet did not weigh much, and his eyes tried to hold the whole shop at once. He set a coin on the counter. It did not glow.
"Oil," he said.
I did not touch the coin. "That coin is dead," I said.
He smiled like we shared a joke. "It spends where I shop."
"It does not spend here," I said, and pointed at the jar. "Real coins light when warm hands hold them."
He put down a second coin. It glowed a little, like a coal thinking about waking. "Half dead," he said.
"I sell things that keep people breathing," I said. "I take proper pay. You know the price."
His eyes slid to the lantern shelf. Pebble rolled to the corner and set one paw on the glass, like a very small guard ringing a very quiet bell. The smile on the man's mouth did not change. That told me enough.
He pushed one real coin over the wood. "Oil then," he said.
I set a tin on the counter. As he took it he also nudged a second real coin, maybe by mistake, maybe not. Pebble tapped it toward me before his fingers closed. He looked at the coin, then at Pebble, then at me.
"Fair," I said, and nudged the extra back.
"Very honest," he said. "Very new."
He backed out of the doorway, never turning his back, and the hall light took him. Thyra's dot brightened, then dimmed.
"Watch," Thyra wrote.
"I am watching," I said.
An hour later, the wall spoke without words. A small tremor, then another. The lamp swayed. The coins in the drawer chimed like thin bells. The ring of pale stones lit in a fine line and held firm. The safe zone felt like a steady hand around a bowl.
Two hunters sprinted in with eyes wide. Two fox sized shapes with too many legs chased them, hit the line, and froze like someone had pressed them against ice. The barrier hummed. The creatures tapped the ring with dry little feet and hissed.
"Sit," I told the hunters. "Drink. Breathe."
They sat with spears across their knees. Pebble made a sound I had not heard before, a low drum from a small body. The creatures flinched, step by step, then turned and skittered away down the dark. The tremor faded, as if the dungeon let go of its breath.
"It holds," the younger hunter said, staring at the line.
"It holds," I said.
They paid for balm, a bandage, and a flavor cup to clear fear from their mouths. When they left, one of them tapped the broom with two fingers and grinned. I grinned back. We both knew the broom's real work was dust.
Later, Rook came in with tired shoulders and happy eyes. The jar hook had done its job. He had a scrape on his knuckles and pride in his walk.
"You felt the shake," he said.
"I did," I said. "We kept the line clear. No trouble reached the counter."
He looked at the ring, nodded, then leaned on the wood like it was a friend. His eyes went to the small cupboard.
"What is that for," he asked.
"Markers," I said. "Promises. Notes that must not go missing."
He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "Then take this," he said. "A map that is wrong. It marks turns most people skip. Good for staying out of crowds."
I unfolded it. Clean lines, neat marks, a careful hand. The old store in my head liked it. I folded it and set it in the cupboard.
"What do you want for it," I asked.
"First pick when you get thin rope," he said. "For a small climb."
"When it comes," I said, "you see it first."
He smiled, bought bread and fruit and one flavor stone for his canteen, and went out steady and sure.
When the light in the hall began to soften, I counted the day. Pebble tapped each stack to make it flat. Thyra wrote the rent number. I paid it. The hatch took the coins and showed a thin glow along its edge like a patient smile.
I locked the cupboard and set the key back on its hook. I wiped the counter, spaced the lanterns so they did not crowd one another, checked the line on the floor. Clear and bright.
"Thyra," I said. "Was that only a small shake."
"Soon," Thyra wrote.
The word sat between us. Not a threat, not a comfort, just the truth of a clock. I turned the sign to REST and hung it on the peg.
Pebble curled in its spot, a small round guard with amber eyes that blinked slower and slower. The fountain kept its soft voice. The blue glow eased down, like the dungeon was tucking itself in.
I lay on the mat behind the counter and watched the ceiling until my eyes went heavy. The line on the floor is only stone, but it means safety. I will keep it clean, the dungeon will keep it strong, and if we both do our part, people live.
I slept with that promise in my chest.
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