The rain hammered down, flattening Lowbridge into a dirty blur of crooked chimneys and gaslight reflections.
Inside his little shop, Dorian was leaned so far back in his chair he was practically horizontal.
(Oh yeah, this guy's name is Dorian)
He lazily spun a cracked monocle around his finger, wondering if he'd ever get another customer.
Maybe he could start selling tea instead. People loved tea. And it didn't come with cursed necklaces, usually.
He was halfway through a daydream about being Lowbridge's most mediocre tea-seller when the bell above the door gave a tired jingle.
Dorian sat up fast, slamming his knee on the underside of the counter.
"Ow-" he muttered, then caught himself, smoothing his face into a calm smile.
A tall man had entered, dripping wet from the storm.
Sharp eyes. Scar on his cheek. Boots that looked expensive but stomped like they knew how to kick teeth in.
Ooh, great, an actual dangerous-looking guy.
This day is already going swimmingly.
The man shut the door carefully behind him, like he was sealing something out... or in.
His gaze swept over the shop's cluttered shelves, lingering on certain objects with the sort of wary distrust a sane man reserved for snakes and tax collectors.
Dorian adjusted his cravat, putting on his best 'respectable shopkeeper' smile.
"Welcome, good sir," he said, as if the words weren't scraping their way out of pure terror. "Looking for something rare today?"
The man said nothing.
Instead, he approached the counter, reaching slowly into his coat.
Dorian had about half a second to wonder if he was about to get stabbed.
Instead, the man produced a small black velvet pouch.
He loosened it carefully and poured the contents onto the counter.
Beads. Gray. Dull. They sucked the light straight out of the air.
The moment Dorian laid eyes on them, every alarm bell in his head went off.
"Yup. That is cursed as hell."
"Not even tiny bit cursed. That's grade-A, genuine, nightmare fuel curse right there."
The man spoke quietly, but the words hit like a sledgehammer.
"I need something to bind this. Temporarily."
Dorian swallowed. "I see... Luckily I have just the thing."
(No he doesn't)
He had nothing that could bind anything.
Unless twine and wishful thinking counted.
But he knew one truth about survival.
Confidence is deadlier than competence.
He put on a thoughtful frown, leaning over the counter like a sage pondering ancient secrets.
His hand drifted under the counter, feeling around for something. anything. that looked remotely important.
His fingers closed around a battered wooden ring he'd found in a crate of junk last week.
The thing wasn't magical.
It wasn't even valuable.
It was a child's toy, or maybe an old man's whittling project gone wrong.
Perfect.
Dorian placed the ring down between them with careful reverence, as if it might sing or explode at any second.
"This," he said gravely, "is the Binding Circle."
The man's eyebrows twitched slightly.
Dorian resisted the urge to grin like a maniac.
"Binding Circle, huh. Sounds official enough. Maybe I should start naming all my junk."
The man waited, saying nothing.
Dorian pressed on, speaking slowly, spinning the bullshit into a tapestry of mystery.
"It does not bind the curse," he said. "It binds... you."
The man stiffened.
Good. That was good.
Fear meant less questions.
"The curse feeds on fear. Guilt. Doubt," Dorian continued, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "As long as your will is steady, this ring will shield you."
He tapped the ring lightly with a fingertip.
"But if you waver... even for a moment..."
He let the sentence trail off...
(Nothing would happen)
The man stared at the ring.
Dorian almost laughed.
"Gods above, he's actually buying this?"
"This is a literal piece of firewood and a prayer."
"Maybe I really am a genius."
Finally, the man spoke.
"How much?"
"Three silver," Dorian said smoothly, pretending that wasn't three times what the thing was worth even as scrap.
The man placed five silver coins on the counter.
Five.
Not three.
Dorian internally screamed.
"Actually no, wait, five is good. Five is excellent."
The man picked up the ring carefully, like it might bite.
He held Dorian's gaze for a moment longer.
And then, voice low, he asked:
"You've been... here a long time, haven't you?"
Dorian blinked.
He thought fast.
"A long time? Like what, this morning? Sure, buddy."
He gave a lazy, knowing smile.
"I've been here Long enough," he said.
The man nodded slowly.
He tucked the ring away inside his coat and turned toward the door.
As he left, Dorian noticed something strange.
The man's steps were lighter now.
More careful.
Like he was afraid of waking something up.
The door creaked shut behind him, sealing the storm outside.
Later That Night
The whispers started once again.
Lowbridge loved a good story.
And this one? Oh, this one had teeth.
"He's not just a relic dealer."
"No, no. he knows things. Things not meant for men."
"My cousin's neighbor swore she saw his reflection move wrong in the mirror."
"He's been there since before the city walls were built. Maybe before the city existed."
By the time the taverns closed, Dorian Lowbridge had been elevated from "strange shopkeeper" to "ancient entity best left undisturbed."
Some said he was a sorcerer fallen from grace.
Others said he was a relic himself, bound in flesh.
Some whispered he could see your sins if you looked him in the eye.
Meanwhile, in his tiny cluttered shop, Dorian counted silver coins, humming off-key, blissfully unaware that half the city now thought he was a living curse in suspenders.
He kicked his feet up on the counter and sipped his terrible, lukewarm tea.
"Man," he thought, stretching out, "I'm really good at this."
Outside, the rain kept falling, washing the streets clean.
But some things. some lies. once seeded, grew roots deeper than any storm could reach.