The rain in Hollow Deep wasn't something you waited out. It wasn't a storm that came and went. It was a permanent fixture, a slow, endless bleed from the sky that made the city feel like it was rotting from the top down. It soaked into wood until it swelled and warped, it carved channels into stone, it left iron streaks down every wall where water traced over rusted pipes.
That morning, the downpour had eased to something lighter — not enough to call a break, just enough to change the sound of it. The heavy drumming of rooftops was replaced by a thin, steady patter that rattled off tin gutters and whispered through canvas awnings.
I moved through the market with my hood low, eyes down. Not because I didn't want to see, but because in Hollow Deep, you didn't want to be seen watching.
The market was in its half-awake state — stalls opening, tarps thrown back, vendors muttering as they arranged their wares. The air was a mix of smells: smoke from cooking fires, salt from dried fish, the tang of metal from tools laid out on rough tables.
I passed a woman with her sleeves rolled high, arms marked with faded spirals that looked like they'd been cut into the skin years ago. She caught me looking and smirked — not a friendly one, more like a warning.
A boy, no older than eight, darted through the crowd with a satchel swinging at his side. I only saw him for a moment, but his fingers brushed a vendor's pocket as he passed, smooth as water. The vendor didn't notice.
A man in a patched coat argued over a string of smoked meat, slapping coins down one at a time like each one was an insult.
It all seemed normal — or as normal as Hollow Deep ever got.
But then I felt it.
The hum.
It was faint, like a vibration through wet stone, but it wasn't in the ground — it was in me. Deep in my left palm, the same place that had burned when I first touched the spiral. It came in slow pulses, each one sinking into the bones of my hand and up my arm.
I flexed my fingers inside my glove, trying to shake it off. Still nothing to see. No glow, no heat, just that insistent rhythm that didn't belong.
I kept moving, but my route shifted without me deciding. The hum was stronger toward the east edge of the market, where the crowd thinned and the streets narrowed.
Here, the buildings leaned toward each other, upper floors sagging like tired shoulders. Rope lines stretched overhead, weighed down with wet laundry. The smell of cooking was gone, replaced by the cold scent of stone and something faintly metallic.
I passed a shop with its windows boarded over, a hand-painted sign half-washed away by the rain. Next to it, an old man sat on a stool under a sagging awning, carving shapes into pieces of scrap wood. His hands were steady despite the cold, his eyes hidden under a wide hat.
The hum in my palm grew stronger.
That's when I saw it.
A crate, propped against the wall of a shuttered building. The wood was swollen from years of rain, dark enough that the carved spiral stood out pale against it. The lines weren't smooth — they were jagged, uneven, as if carved in a hurry with a dull blade. Water ran down into the grooves, catching a faint shimmer before dripping off the bottom.
I glanced around. The street was almost empty. The old man kept carving. No one looked at me.
I stepped closer.
The air here was colder. The kind of cold that made you breathe shallow, like the air itself didn't want to be taken in. My breath fogged faintly, despite the warmth of the season.
The spiral seemed… alive. The shimmer in its grooves brightened and dimmed, just enough to make you doubt if it was real. When I looked too long, the curves seemed to shift, tightening inward.
A soft scuff came from above.
I looked up.
Something moved along the rooftop — a shadow against the mist, crouched low. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw a face under a hood. But then it was gone, melting into the rain-slick tiles.
When I looked back, the shimmer was fading. The hum in my palm slowed until it was almost gone.
I turned to leave, but something at the far end of the street caught my eye.
A man in a long coat was passing by, head down, moving quickly. On his shoulder was a patch — another spiral, sharper than mine, embroidered in silver thread. He didn't look at me, but the tilt of his head told me he knew I was there.
I didn't follow.
Instead, I turned down another alley, narrower than the last. The ground was mud and broken planks, the walls patched with scraps of tin.
Halfway through, I froze.
A man stood at the far end, facing away from me. His coat was torn at the hem, and in one hand he held a bundle of cloth. His shoulders rose and fell too fast, like he'd been running.
I took a cautious step forward.
He turned his head, just enough for me to see his face — pale, eyes wide, lips moving soundlessly. Over and over, he shaped the same word. I couldn't hear it over the rain, but I knew what it was.
Run.
The bundle slipped from his hand. It wasn't cloth at all — it was another coat, heavy and soaked through. On the shoulder, stitched in silver thread, was the same sharp spiral patch.
When I looked up again, he was gone.
The hum in my palm slammed back into me, faster now, almost frantic.
I backed out of the alley without turning my back to it. No one followed, but every shadow seemed to lean closer, listening.
By the time I reached my building, my glove was damp from the inside, my palm still throbbing with each step.