The rain here wasn't just wet. It clung. Heavy drops slid down my hood, trailing cold fingers down my neck before soaking into my shirt. The streets gleamed under a dim light that wasn't coming from the sky—muted glows leaked from paper lanterns hanging at odd angles above the crooked alleys.
Every building looked like it had been constructed by a different set of hands. Some walls were patched with mismatched planks of wood, others with slabs of stone that didn't quite fit. Upper floors leaned outward over the street, pressing so close together they turned alleys into dark tunnels.
And everywhere—everywhere—there were marks.
Not spirals like mine, but angular, jagged symbols scratched into brick, painted in tar, or gouged deep into the wood of doors. Some were fresh, others had been crossed out or smeared until they were almost gone. The rain made the black tar drip down the walls like blood.
I didn't see children here. Just hard-faced adults moving quickly and speaking softly, if they spoke at all. They carried bundles under their cloaks, avoiding each other's eyes. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone else's business—but pretended they didn't.
A faint hum stirred in my palm. Not enough to set me on edge, but enough to make me more aware of every shadow.
I passed a doorway where two men stood just inside, their conversation low but sharp. One wore a patchwork leather vest over a soaked shirt, the other a dark scarf pulled high over his mouth. As I walked past, their voices cut off. I didn't look back, but I could feel their eyes on me until I turned the corner.
Half a block later, a faded sign swung above a half-open door. It looked like it might have once been painted with a spiral, though the lines were jagged like lightning bolts curling inward. The wood was cracked and warped, the spiral barely visible under years of peeling paint.
Inside, the air was hazy with smoke. A few people sat at rough tables, their eyes downcast as they nursed tin cups of something steaming. In the far corner, a woman with pale green hair tied into a tight knot was hunched over a case, her fingers moving in quick, precise motions. I caught the faint glint of metal tools and glass vials before she closed the case and slid it under the table.
Before I could take more than two steps inside, a hissed voice cut through the air.
"Not here."
I glanced around, but the voice hadn't come from the room. It came from above.
Looking up, I spotted a boy leaning out of a second-story window. He couldn't have been older than twelve, his face smudged with soot, his eyes darting between me and something farther down the street.
"Go back," he said quickly, and without another word, he shut the window.
I left.
The street ahead widened—by Crooked District standards, anyway—allowing enough space for two carts to pass if their drivers were careful. Rainwater pooled in the dips of the stone road, reflecting twisted shapes of the leaning buildings above.
That's when I heard it.
Boots. Steady, deliberate, splashing through water with a rhythm that matched the pounding in my chest.
I risked a glance over my shoulder.
Two Runners.
The same ones from before.
They weren't bothering to hide their interest this time. The man with the short sword had one hand resting on its hilt; the other, with the crossbow, carried it low but ready. Even through the rain, their eyes locked on me with the kind of focus that made my stomach knot.
I turned away, quickening my pace.
The hum in my palm sharpened, no longer faint—it was pushing me forward, urging me toward something. I didn't know where it was leading me, but I trusted it more than I trusted staying where I was.
I cut down a narrow lane lined with laundry strung overhead. The soaked fabric clung to my shoulders as I passed, chilling me even further. The Runners were close now; I could hear the quiet jingle of gear strapped to their belts.
The lane sloped downward, the cobblestones slick under my boots. Steam hissed from vents in the walls, clouding the air and hiding my path for a moment.
Then I saw it.
An underpass beneath a sagging bridge. The stone here was dark, streaked with moss and grime.
Halfway through, I stopped dead.
Carved into the underside of the bridge was a spiral—small enough to fit in my hand, but shifting as I looked at it, the lines never quite holding their shape.
I pressed my palm against it before I could second-guess myself.
The heat came instantly—sharp but bearable, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The sound of the rain faded into nothing. Even the splash of the Runners' boots grew muffled, distant.
No words this time. Just a feeling. Urgency. Danger.
I pulled my hand away, and the world snapped back into place. The Runners were closer now, their eyes narrowing as they spotted me.
I bolted.
The underpass spilled into an alley lined with empty crates. At the far end was a narrow door, slightly ajar. I ducked inside without thinking.
The air in the room was warmer, thick with the scent of herbs and something acrid that stung my nose. Glass jars filled with powders, dried plants, and cloudy liquids lined the walls. A workbench sat under a dim oil lamp, covered in metal tools, tiny spoons, and rolled parchment marked with diagrams of plants and strange symbols.
I reached out and touched one of the parchments. It was a drawing of a flower—one I didn't recognize—surrounded by spirals and angular marks, with handwritten notes in a language I couldn't read.
On the bench lay a folded cloth. I lifted the corner to find a metal bracer, etched with a spiral I'd never seen before. This one had smaller marks circling it—marks that matched some of those I'd seen scratched into the Crooked District's walls.
The hum in my palm flared hot, just for a moment.
Outside, footsteps splashed past. The door rattled once but didn't open. Whoever it was kept moving.
I set the bracer down carefully and backed away. My eyes caught on a jar near the bottom shelf—a swirling silver liquid that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. For some reason, it made the hum in my hand pulse again.
I didn't take it. Not yet.
When I stepped back into the street, the Crooked District seemed quieter. Not safer—never safer—but like the watchers had pulled back, retreating into the shadows for now.