I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man in the alley again. His mouth shaping that single word — Run — over and over. The silver spiral patch stitched to the coat he'd dropped seemed burned into my memory.
When I did drift off, the hum came back in my dreams, vibrating through my bones like I'd swallowed the sound. I'd wake with my left hand aching, flexing my fingers until it faded.
By the time the city's faint gray daylight filtered through my window, I was already dressed. The rain hadn't stopped — if anything, it had grown heavier overnight, rattling the tin gutters above my building and making the streets below flow like shallow rivers.
Hollow Deep's mornings always felt heavier after long nights. People moved slower, shoulders hunched, faces hidden in the folds of their hoods. The market square was thinner than usual, vendors late to set up their stalls. Those who had arrived kept their goods under canvas, selling through small openings like they were guarding secrets instead of food.
I told myself I'd keep to crowded streets today. No shortcuts. No detours. I didn't need another spiral staring back at me from some forgotten wall.
But the city didn't care what I wanted.
I spotted the old man from yesterday across the square. The one who'd been carving shapes into scraps of wood while sitting under a sagging awning. Today, he wasn't sheltered. He stood in the open rain, his wide hat dripping steadily, his gaze fixed on something in his hand.
I shouldn't have gone to him. But my feet moved anyway.
When I was close enough to speak, I asked, "What's that?"
He looked up slowly. His eyes were pale — cloudy, almost — and his face was weathered like carved stone. Without answering, he turned his hand so I could see.
It was a carving.
Palm-sized, cut from dark wood, shaped into a spiral. But not like mine. This one was broken — the lines jagged, segments missing, and small dots etched between them in strange patterns.
"Where'd you get it?" I asked.
His lips moved, but the rain drowned out his voice. Then, just as I leaned closer, he closed his fingers around it and shuffled away, disappearing between two market stalls without looking back.
The hum started again in my palm.
I froze in the middle of the square.
It wasn't as sharp as the last time, but it was steady. I scanned the crowd, trying to spot whatever was pulling at it.
That's when I saw them.
Two figures.
They stood out because they weren't doing what everyone else was. They weren't browsing the stalls or shouting over prices. They weren't hurrying out of the rain. They were standing still, their attention locked on me.
Runners.
Not the same three from before — these two were younger. Their oilcloth cloaks were clean, shedding rain like new skin. One carried a short sword in a leather sheath slung diagonally across his back; the other held a heavy crossbow, the string slick with water but ready all the same.
They didn't hide that they were watching me.
I turned away, forcing my pace to stay even. Running too early would only confirm what they were already thinking.
The hum in my palm quickened, matching my heartbeat.
I cut down a side lane, weaving between people carrying crates and sacks. The Runners followed. Not close enough to push yet, but close enough that I could hear their boots splashing in rhythm with mine.
I took another turn, this time into a narrow street where laundry hung overhead, sagging with rain. Water dripped onto my hood as I passed, but I didn't slow.
The street curved, narrowing until the buildings leaned toward each other like they were trying to touch. My boots hit slick cobblestones, the kind that had been worn into dips and grooves by years of foot traffic.
Behind me, the Runners' steps grew faster.
The hum in my hand wasn't just a warning anymore. It was pulling me. Directing me. I could feel the direction it wanted me to go, like a compass hidden in my bones.
I ducked under a wooden archway and into an even smaller alley, the kind where the walls felt like they were closing in. Pipes rattled overhead, dripping in time with my steps.
And then I saw it.
A steel door at the alley's end, streaked with rust — and painted across it in thick, black tar was another spiral.
This one was bold, deliberate. The lines were broad, the edges dripping slightly as if it had been painted only hours ago.
Without thinking, I pressed my left palm to it.
Heat flared instantly under my skin. The spiral on the door pulsed once, a faint light tracing its lines before fading.
The sound of the rain stopped.
The shouts of the Runners dulled, like they were a street away instead of just behind me. My breath came out in slow, heavy clouds.
And then, a voice — not in my ears, but in my palm.
Not ready. Not yet.
The heat snapped away.
Sound crashed back into place — the rain, the splashes, the shouts of the Runners turning the corner into the alley.
I ripped my hand away and bolted down a side passage between two buildings, the walls so close my shoulders scraped the wet brick. I didn't stop until I was far from the market, deep in a district I didn't recognize.
The streets here were wrong.
They bent at strange angles, leading into each other in ways that didn't make sense. Shadows clung to the walls longer than they should have, and the rain felt warmer, heavier, almost oily.
The hum was gone again, but the words it left behind — Not ready. Not yet. — stayed with me, repeating in my head until I wasn't sure if they were a warning or a threat.