The floor isn't supposed to glow.
I can feel the lockmark pulsing under the broken tile like a second heartbeat. Wrong rhythm. Too fast. The collectors blew a hole in my west wall on their way out and now I've got structural damage, a hunter who just locked herself inside with me, and something old waking up in my foundation.
Ivy's still standing by the control panel, breathing hard. Dust all over her jacket. Blood on her knuckles. She's staring at the crack in the floor where gold light is leaking through.
"Noah." Her voice is tight. "What the hell is that?"
I don't know. That's the worst part. I can feel every pipe and wire in this place but whatever's down there predates my setup. It's not part of my grid. It's under it.
"A royal lockmark," I say, pulling the answer from the same borrowed knowledge that taught me how to spawn Mallow. "Old magic. City foundation stuff. I didn't put it there."
"Great." She crouches next to the crack, one hand on her blade. "So we've got angry debt collectors, a condemned mall, and now buried royal magic lighting up like a damn beacon."
"Pretty much."
She shoots me a look. My core is mounted in the wall behind the counter, so technically she's glaring at a glowing blue sphere the size of a bowling ball. Still works.
"You're bad luck," she says.
"You crashed through my gate."
"You invited me in."
Fair. I did heal her. And lock the exits when she asked. And now the floor is cracking wider and I can feel something down there starting to move.
The gold light flares. The crack splits another six inches. Mallow squeaks and scrambles up onto the counter, eyes huge. Ivy jerks back, blade up.
"Noah—"
"I see it."
The lockmark isn't just glowing anymore. It's opening. The edges of the crack start to peel back like something's prying them apart from below. I try to clamp down on it, reinforce the tile, but it's not my structure. I can't touch it.
Cold air rolls up through the gap. I feel it in my sensors, wrong and old and way too aware. It smells like rust and stone and something I don't have a name for.
"Can you close it?" Ivy's voice is steady but her knuckles are white on the hilt.
"I'm trying." I dump power into the floor, trying to seal the tile, shore up the foundation. Nothing. The lockmark doesn't care. It's not part of my authority.
The hole widens. Now it's the size of a manhole cover. The gold light spills across the floor and up the walls. Mallow hisses.
Ivy backs up a step. Then another. Her eyes flick to the door.
"Don't," I say.
"I'm not running." But her weight shifts toward the exit.
"Ivy." I need her to hear me. "If you open that door, the collectors will know something's wrong. They'll call it in. The city will send a demolition team and we'll both be gone by morning."
She freezes. Her jaw works. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Help me close it."
"I'm not a dungeon mage, Noah. I kill things. I don't do foundation magic."
"You've got a mark."
She stares at me. "What?"
"On your wrist. I saw it when you touched the panel. It flared when you locked the exits." I'm guessing now, pulling threads from instinct and desperation. "Royal magic recognizes blood. That lockmark down there isn't random. It's keyed to something. Maybe someone."
Ivy looks down at her left wrist. She shoves her sleeve up. There's a faint scar there, old and pale, shaped like a broken circle. It's not glowing. Not yet.
"This is from a binding contract," she says slowly. "My brother and I both got marked when we signed on with the first guild. It's not royal. It's just debt chain ink."
"Then why did the control panel light up when you touched it?"
She doesn't answer. The hole groans. Another foot of tile collapses inward. The cold air gets colder. I feel something brush the edge of my territory, testing, hungry.
"We're out of time," I say. "I need your help or that thing is going to crack my foundation and drag us both down."
Ivy stares at the hole. Then at her wrist. Then at my core. Her face is hard but I can see the calculation behind it. She's weighing risk. She's good at that.
"If this kills me," she says, "I'm haunting you."
"Deal."
She moves fast. Three strides and she's at the edge of the hole, crouching, blade sheathed. The gold light washes over her face. She rolls her sleeve higher.
"What do I do?"
"Put your hand in."
"You're insane."
"Probably. Do it anyway."
She swears under her breath. Then she reaches out, slow, and slides her hand into the dark past the glowing edge.
The lockmark flares white-hot. Ivy gasps but doesn't pull back. Her wrist is inside the gap now, her fingers somewhere I can't see. I feel the magic shift, wild and old, slamming into her mark like a lock testing a key.
"Noah—" Her voice cracks.
"Hold on."
"It's burning—"
"I know. Stay."
I push every scrap of power I have into the floor around her, trying to stabilize it, trying to give the lockmark something to latch onto besides her. The cold air wraps around her arm. Her breath comes fast and sharp. Sweat beads on her temple. She's shaking.
"Use my mark," she grits out. "If it wants blood, take it. Just close the damn thing."
I don't know how. But I reach anyway, pulling at the threads of magic I barely understand, following the line from her wrist down into the dark. The lockmark pulses. Her scar flares gold.
Something clicks.
The hole shudders. The cold air snaps back like a rubber band. The gold light surges once, twice, and then slams inward, dragging the edges of the crack with it. Tile screeches. The floor seals.
Ivy yanks her hand back and falls on her ass, breathing hard. Her arm is smoking. Not metaphor. Actual thin curls of steam rising off her skin.
Mallow chirps and hops down from the counter, sniffing cautiously at the sealed floor.
"Did it work?" Ivy's voice is rough.
I check the foundation. The crack is gone. The lockmark is still there, buried deep, but it's quiet now. Dormant. Locked.
"Yeah," I say. "It worked."
She slumps back against the counter, eyes closed. Her chest rises and falls. I can see the pulse in her throat, too fast. She's scared. She's just too stubborn to run.
I like that about her.
"Thanks," I say.
She opens one eye. "Don't thank me yet."
"Why?"
She holds up her left wrist.
The scar is gone. In its place, glowing faint gold against her skin, is the shape of a crown. Small. Delicate. Unmistakable.
We both stare at it.
"Noah," Ivy says, very quietly. "What the hell did you just do to me?"
I don't have an answer. The crown pulses once, soft and steady, like a second heartbeat.
And somewhere deep in my foundation, the lockmark pulses back.