Vaulder Claith looked around the room with a mixture of pride and apprehension. His former bookshop had been emptied out, his uncle’s collection of tomes sold or placed in storage. Workers had been hired, laboring nearly day and night to remodel the store into a comfortable cafe.

He was amazed at the speed of the transformation, but between the profits from his time selling the elixir drinks in the market before the Tower was blocked off and what was left over from the dungeon’s golden apples, he had the coin to afford the best builders and craftmages Caltern had to offer. They had spent his money freely, but efficiently, and the end result was worth it.The Nameless Cafe was nearly ready to open.

Standing in the doorway and looking over his new kingdom, Vaulder imagined how it would look once he opened his doors officially. From the entrance, one would pass the few remaining bookshelves, which would hold the last of the store’s former stock, cultivated volumes dealing with codices of dungeon lore, monster bestiaries, and other topics his preferred clientele would find interesting.

Each was stamped with an inexpensive but effective rune that would keep it from crossing the threshold unless dispelled at the counter, as well as enchantments to repel liquids and to keep the parchment and vellum intact through ill-use. The cost was exorbitant, nearly as much as the rest of the remodel, but Vaulder wasn’t going to let some oafish wannabe adventurer destroy his tomes. He considered it money well spent, and if anyone purchased one of the volumes, he would simply pass the markup on to them, in the time-honored tradition of merchants everywhere.

Past the bookshelves was a collection of small tables in all manner of geometric shapes. Customers could sit and read, discuss tactics and swap stories with their allies or strangers, and enjoy a variety of pastries, sandwiches, and other tasty confections, all while imbibing drinks made from Kathe’s Elixir.

Facing the rest of the room, beyond the tables was a long counter, complete with stools for patrons. While Vaulder acknowledged that his customers would have certain expectations with regards to their preferred gathering places, he would sooner delve the dungeon in his nightshirt before he called it a bar.

Well, perhaps not that, he thought to himself, eyeing the door to the back of the shop while smoothing out a tic he’d recently developed in his right cheek with his fingertips.

Between the counter and the tables, on a slightly raised platform, was the heart of the whole endeavor. Behind glass cases containing samples of the products of one of the best bakeries in the city, what looked like a miniature alchemist’s workshop dominated the room. Large canisters, glass bottles and iron pots, bubbling chambers, and all manner of tubing ran from one side of the area to the other. Most of it was for show; Kathe preferred to use his own lab for the actual brewing of the elixir.

But the equipment was serviceable, the brilliant alchemist having designed a system that would allow Vaulder to dilute the potent concoction, or mix it with a number of different base liquids to entice his patrons into parting with their coins while staying and chatting where he could hear them. This one added a splash to warmed milk, that one a dose in chilled tea. Mhurr, before entering the tower, had even discovered a sweet cream liqueur that enhanced the flavor of the elixir without dulling its stimulating effects.

Vaulder had spent a number of days experimenting with different combinations to find the ones he would serve to his customers, drinking the results himself and judging them based on their taste, presentation, and effectiveness. That he hadn’t slept during that period was simply a side-effect of his enthusiasm to finish, and if he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t wake screaming dream of spiders and rats, anyway.

At the rear of the shop, the back room had been partitioned in two. One half served as storage, and contained a spigot and basin to clean the equipment, as well as the cups and plates the patrons dirtied. The other half contained his office and room, and housed the damnable trap door to the lightless nightmare that rested under Caltern.

Completing the main portion of the room were a few aesthetic touches. The walls were done in grays and greens, the floor in a glimmering black that evoked the feeling of looking into a bottomless crevasse, and a few sculptures and accent pieces, done by artisans in Suffi’s sect who had heard stories of the dungeon from her and Krait Halfhand, were scattered about; a gold-painted wrought iron serpent, twisting glass mushrooms, glittering crystalline spider webs stretching towards the ceiling.

One of the artists had even painted one of those bizzare-looking but powerful giant sloths on a wall. It gave the space a somewhat eerie feel, but also brought the horrors of the dungeon to the surface and froze them in time, emboldening those who viewed them, filling them with preemptive confidence that they knew what to expect.

Vaulder felt pity for them. They wouldn’t know the barest fraction of what awaited them below. What he would help send them to. Before he could dwell on that unpleasant thought, he went behind the counter to make himself another drink. Perhaps two parts elixir to six parts cherry juice.

As he mixed and stirred, he envisioned the place as it would be shortly, bustling and full of customers. He raised his glass to his lips, the sweet fizzing beverage tickling his nose in a peculiar, but pleasant fashion, then paused and frowned. Customers. Crowds. Nolan was still in the tower. This was a problem.

“Oh, by the Gods, look Mr. Claith! That’s Seamus Aaronson! His family was killed by a flight of Bloodgold drakes, and he was adopted by an order of dragonslayers. When he was old enough, he returned to his family’s home and slaughtered every drake there, save for one single egg that hatched as he approached. The creature imprinted on him, so he took mercy on it and kept it as a companion. They say his armor is made from the scales of those same drakes who killed his family, and his bond with Nuuno allows him to summon balls of drakeflame to his right hand, which he can throw with deadly accuracy!”

Vaulder massaged his temple as he covertly examined the excited young lady before him for gills, an air bladder, or some other means of taking in or storing extra breath while she spoke incessantly. He wasn’t certain he’d ever actually seen her inhale.

“That’s very interesting, Sarrashi…” he began, sparing a glance for the foreboding, blunt-nosed man in red and golden scale armor, with a small drake perched on his shoulder, before the energetic, apron-wrapped blend of brown ringlets, shining green eyes, and sunlight-brilliant smiles he had hired to serve the patrons turned and indicated another customer sat at the bar counter, damn it behind them.

“And there! That’s Belford Harpheart! He was a great duelist, they say there was no one more skilled with a rapier anywhere in the Ambercourt Nation. I heard he retired, took up duty as a man-at-arms and bodyguard for a noble house. I wonder what he’s doing here on his own.” Sarrashi Cooper paused and tapped her chin with a finger, pondering this great mystery while staring at the solidly-built old warrior with the patchwork of scars and missing digits, and the sudden silence, comparatively at least, left Vaulder momentarily stunned. She hadn’t stopped telling him the names and stories of the different mages, adventurers, and monster hunters who had been through the cafe since it had opened.

“Between working, studying for the entrance exam to the Academy, and all the reading I see you do, I’m amazed at how much you seem to know about our patrons, Sarrashi. I hope you aren’t pestering them.” Vaulder cautioned. Not only were these people his ticket to fortune, as Kathe’s elixir was still selling as fast as they could pour it, the dungeon had instructed him to learn about the adventurers of the city for its purposes, so it wouldn’t do to have them driven away by an irrepressible girl hounding them for stories of their supposed exploits.

He amended his thought as his new employee looked slightly abashed. Woman, Sarrashi was a young woman, probably only a year or two younger than him. But her bubbly personality and effortless charm made her seem younger. Or perhaps it was just that she had managed to come through her life thus far without experiencing the kinds of things his patrons had; the kinds of things he had. She still had wonder in her heart, where a deep, heavy fear resided in his. He envied her.

“I’m sorry, Mr Claith. I just get so excited, I’ve read stories and heard tales of bands of roving slayers, of scholars who have unearthed secrets thought lost to time, of mages who have pushed the study of Arcana forward by leaps and bounds. And thanks to you, I don’t have to wait until I finish my studies at the Mage Academy, I don’t even have to wait until I save up to pay my tuition to rub elbows with the kinds of people who they tell those stories about; I get to serve them elixir and cakes, and listen to them talk right now! I’m learning so much about what being an adventurer is like, before I even begin my apprenticeship. I can't thank you enough for hiring me!”

“It has proven to be beneficial for us both, Sarrashi. Very well, tell me about that one, the dwarven man with the giant axe and all the charms and potion bottles.” Vaulder found himself smiling at the woman in spite of himself. Something about her positive, idealistic nature just brought it out in him. He even felt a little calmer recently, more centered. It’s funny what having a walking bundle of sunshine around could do for one’s mood, he considered.

“Ooh, you don’t know about Dunik the Invulnerable? It’s said that he is a mighty berzerker who can’t be slain in battle, but if he doesn’t use those healing items before the fight ends, all of the blows he should have felt previously strike him at once.”

Her smile had returned full-force, and Serrashi preceded to regale him with the stories she had heard about their customers until night fell and they pushed the last remaining patron, a short, berobed and mustachioed man who had gotten deep into his cups with some of the more potent mixes on the menu and was constantly referring to himself in the third person, out the door.

As Vaulder locked the door and engaged the wards he’d had an academy neophyte place, before retreating to the office to tally the days take, Sarrashi began to wash the last batch of dirty dishes. Slowly sipping what he promised himself would be his last elixir of the night, he took an inventory and prepared order sheets that runners would pick up and take to Kathe’s workshop, the bakery, and a few vendors in the market first thing in the morning.

His work was nearly complete when a shriek filled the quiet air, causing him to freeze in place, before bolting out of his chair and into the storeroom.

“Mr Claith! Help! A spider!” Sarrashi screamed, and his feet tangled themselves up in his rush to stop moving forward, sending him to the floor. He slowly drew himself back up, peering over racks of goods to where his employee stood by the washbasin. He knew for certain that he would see her collapse any moment, frothing at the mouth from some virulent toxin injected by the foot-long mandibles of some dungeon horror. But after a few seconds, she screamed again, and pointed. “Please, I can’t abide spiders! Take it, put it outside, please!”

Vaulder blinked and stepped closer. On the floor under a shelf was, indeed, a spider. But as it skittered into the light, he saw no Mother of Pearl sheen to its shell, no malevolent insight in its compound eyes...there before them was a regular, ordinary house spider about the size of a coin. From somewhere within, a bubbling giggle escaped Vaulder’s lips, as he stretched his leg out and stomped down.

“Mr Claith, sir? That’s enough, I...I think it’s dead. You can stop stomping now…” Sarrashi looked concerned as Vaulder came back to himself. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d brought his heel down upon the arachnid, but he strongly disagreed with the woman, it was most certainly not enough. Still, it wouldn’t do to have her quit because she thought he was mad. You are mad, though. He shook his head to dislodge the thought his treasonous mind delighted in presenting more and more often these days.

“Yes, s-so it is. I’m sorry, Sarrashi. I also dislike spiders, and I’m afraid. I mean, I’m afraid my nerves got the better of me, caused me to overreact. Still, let me get the broom to dispose of our former intruder, and you head on home. I’ll take care of the last of those cups.” Vaulder clicked his mouth shut to avoid tripping over his words any further.

Sarrashi gave him another of her blinding smiles and hung her green and black apron from a hook on the wall. “Thank you, Mr Claith. I’ll see you tomorrow!” she promised him, and then was gone, out the door in a flash. Vaulder put action to his words, sweeping up the pulped remains of the spider before emptying the wash tub and putting the plates and mugs away to dry. That done, he rechecked the locks, turned the lanterns in the cafe down low never out and returned to his office, to find another spider waiting for him.

The crazed giggle that had escaped him before brought friends, shrieking cackles leaping from his lips as the goliath waited alongside the trapdoor, the invitation obvious and irrefusable. Grabbing the half-empty glass on his desk, he gulped down the remainder of the drink for strength, and to silence the mad, utterly mad laughter, then descended into the dark. He was met at the mouth of the tunnel by his rodent escorts, the spider climbing a wall and returning to its nest, as the rats led him through the maze of pitfalls towards the garden.

As he shook off the aftereffects of the shrinking magic that hung over the garden, Vaulder glanced around the gazebo curiously. There was something different about the dungeon. Where before, there was a constant pressure from the dungeon’s awareness covering the entire area, now it felt somewhat distant. Still everywhere, but connected by individual strands, rather than a singular blanket. It felt a little like being surrounded by invisible, spiritual spider webs, and that was an image he was never going to get out of his head; one more of the many provided by the dungeon.

After a short time spent waiting and idly examining the collection of beautiful goblets arrayed within the structure, Cabochon entered. The arachne looked...different. Stronger, more robust. And it had all eight legs again. Vaulder wasn’t sure how to broach that particular topic, and was almost grateful when the other man, spider...Cabochon spoke.

“The Maker has gone below. You’ll go to him soon, to see what he has created. Before then, you will find for him books on poisons, ones that affect mana, or are formed from it. Also, records of dungeons bound or destroyed by adventurers. Finally, you will acquire for me the equipment to cut and polish gems, and make jewelry. Spare no expense.”

Vaulder swallowed and focused on his words, as he felt the attention of the dungeon and the weight of its contract on him. “W-well, the cafe, er, tavern is doing well, but what y-you’re asking is...I will, of course, do it! But, it will take t-time. Information about p-poisons is regulated, and there are very few academic studies of the process of b-binding a dungeon. It’s a major source of power for guilds, even entire nations. But, but I will find stories that are as true as possible, in the meanwhile, and find you records when I can. And the equipment...”

Cabochon held up a hand and seemed to listen for a moment. “Intruders, coming down the ravine. A tall man with runes on his face and a brace of glass knives, and a short woman covered in tattoos.” Vaulder’s eyes widened at the description.

“Warrick the Mirror’s Edge, and Glenanna the Painted Woman.”

“You are familiar with these adventurers? What can you tell me of them?” Cabochon asked with intent curiosity.

“Warrick can use his runes to create mirror images of himself wherever light reflected from his knives hits, and strike from any of the reflections with the blades. He can also throw the daggers and move them through the air by will alone. Glenanna is a skilled unarmed fighter, and her tattoos are enchanted. One is supposed to allow her to step on the air, another to fade into shadow or mist for an ambush, a third that sends the force of her punch a few feet further than her reach would suggest.” Vaulder numbly relayed the words Sarrashi had told him that afternoon.

“That is helpful. Remain here. This will not take long. I will test them, and see if they are worthy to face the Maker’s second layer.”

With the arachne gone, Vaulder sunk to the glass floor of the gazebo. Those were his customers. People he had spoken to, well, had paid someone else to speak to, earlier that day. He knew what the dungeon had wanted when it told him to open a tavern: to gather information on the fighters of Caltern for it. It was another thing entirely to see the use of that information borne out. Vaulder hung his head for a few moments, trying not to listen to the sudden cry of voices, the clash of glass knife striking glaive, the hiss of serpents and the chittering of spiders.

As quiet returned to the dungeon, Vaulder attempted to steel himself. His “deal” with the dungeon, one-sided as it was, may have hastened these adventurers’ end, but they had chosen to come down here, to risk the perils of the deep for power, fortune, or glory. He couldn’t hold himself responsible for what had happened to them; it would have happened either way. Only a fool would come to this place willingly. Only a fool, or a madman.

Cabochon returned, flicking a thin layer of blood from the end of his weapon. “They were unworthy. The way is clear, return to your shop. Come back when you have what is required. And before you quail about the price, as I am certain you will, take this.” The dungeon guardian dropped a pouch in Vaulder’s hand. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the drawstring and peered inside.

Resting within were a small number of pearls, golden lustre shining even in the darkness. “Sell those to finance what the Maker and I need. Sell no more than one at a time. You may not tell anyone they came from the dungeon. You may imply they ended up in your hands from someone who came to the dungeon. Do you understand?”

Vaulder nodded. While not as rich in mana as the apples he had already pawned, even an untrained fourth son like himself could feel the positive energy residing within the pearls, divine fortune waiting to be spent.

Wordlessly, he allowed himself to be lead back to the tunnel and up into his room, his attention focused on the weight of the pouch in his hand, and what it would mean. More bait for the dungeon’s hooks, set with rumor and supposition into the mouths of the greedy, the foolhardy. More webs to trap the unwary and ambitious. If it was believed that treasure was being retrieved from the dungeon and traded in his cafe, then competition would do much to increase the rush into the darkness.

He lost track of time, sitting at his desk and staring at the pouch until there was a loud rapping at the front door. Rousing himself, he blinked raw, tired eyes and realized that the sky was just beginning to lighten over the rooftops of Caltern. Another day was dawning. He went to the door, unlocking it to allow Sarrashi to enter.

“Good morning Mr. Claith! It looks like it’s going to be beautiful today! Did you give any thought to my idea of putting tables and chairs outside the front door? Customers can enjoy the lovely weather, and people walking by will see the drinks and tasty treats and be enticed to come inside. We’ll be the spiders this time, drawing them to our web to trade their coins for your friend’s elixir. Maybe we won’t be so scared of spiders, then, if we’re like them!” The woman smirked at her own cleverness as she brushed past him, brimming with energy, to retrieve her apron from the storeroom.

Vaulder furrowed his brows. Hearing the echo of his earlier thoughts in the cheerful inflections of his employee gave him a twinge of guilt and doubt, before his self-interest and the reality of the dungeon’s contract pushed it down. He realized he was still standing at the open door, closing and relocking it before going to help Sarrashi get ready to open the cafe. She favored him with a smile as he assisted her in stocking the cases with fresh pastries and began priming the mixing and brewing equipment.

“I really want you to know how much I appreciate you giving me this opportunity, Mr. Claith. It’s not just the job; well, it’s that too. I need the money if I’m ever going to get into the Academy. But this is so much better than working at a market stall, or on some farm somewhere. I get to meet all kinds of interesting people, try all the wonderful drinks you and Kathe have come up with, and you’ve never told me off for talking too much. Most people do, you know. I think that’s why I have such a hard time making friends usually.” She smiled self-consciously as she set a tray of plates on a waiting shelf before dusting off her hands on her apron.

“It’s fine, Sarrashi, I honestly don’t mind your talking. You have a pleasant voice.” Vaulder answered absentmindedly as he brewed himself a mug of tea with an extra dose of elixir. Maybe two extra. Or three. It had been a long night. His brain caught up with the rest of her words as he took the first sip. “Friends? You think we’re friends?”

“Of course we are! You’re nice. A little weird, maybe, but that just makes you more fun. That’s okay, right? And who am I to say anyone’s weird. Look at me, always saying every little thing that pops into my head, obsessing over adventurers and stories...I’m afraid that once I become a mage and go off on adventures myself, it will be tough to find people who are willing to go into a dungeon with a chatterbox.”

Vaulder gripped the painfully hot mug tightly as he stepped towards Serrashi. “No! I mean, no, of course it’s okay that we’re friends. But don’t think about going into dungeons!” He retreated, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “Uh, yet, I mean. You should enjoy your time here, focus on your studies. Besides, the Nameless Cafe and I would be lost without you.”

She beamed her signature smile at him and began wiping down the counter and tables, humming to herself. In that moment, Vaulder found something in him that he didn’t know was there: resolve. While he might have to help the dungeon, and entice adventurers to go and give their lives to the hungry abyss below, he wouldn’t let this wonderful, bright spark be among them. One way or another, he would protect her.

“Sarrashi, if we’re going to be friends, please, call me Vaulder.”