The Crooked District was behind me.
At least, that's what I told myself.
But even as the streets widened and the shadows thinned, the smell still clung to me—wet stone, smoke, and that bitter tang of burnt herbs.
Hollow Deep was never really behind you.
Not if it had seen your face.
I kept moving, head low, my hood pulled tight. The street was crowded enough to give me hope—rows of stalls leaning against each other like drunks, their tarps sagging under the weight of rainwater. Merchants shouted half-heartedly over the hiss of the mist, hawking skewers of sizzling meat, baskets of spiced fruit, and coils of dried river eel. The air was thick with steam and the tang of metal from a nearby smithy.
If I could just get lost in this noise, maybe I could disappear.
That was when I heard it.
Boots.
Not rushing. Not weaving. Just… keeping pace.
I caught sight of them in a flash of polished steel and dark cloth—two figures moving through the crowd with that slow, sure rhythm you only saw from predators. The same sword. The same crossbow. Same hoods shadowing their faces.
The hum in my palm stirred, faint at first, like a drumbeat through the floor.
I turned down a side street between a pottery stand and a spice seller. The sudden burn of crushed peppers in my throat made my eyes water, but I didn't slow. The alley narrowed, brick slick against my shoulders.
Splash.
The boots followed.
I took the first corner without looking, then the next, threading through a warren of alleys. For a moment, the sound behind me faded, and I risked slowing to a walk.
That's when the crossbow bolt punched into the wall inches from my head.
I bolted.
The alley tilted upward into a wooden stairwell bolted to the side of a leaning building. The stairs groaned under my weight, but the hum in my palm urged me faster. The higher I climbed, the more Hollow Deep unfolded beneath me—bridges crossing between second floors, ropes strung overhead for drying laundry, balconies crowding the streets below.
I hit the top and turned right onto a warped balcony. Ahead, a plank bridge swayed between buildings.
Shouts rose behind me.
I dashed across the bridge, the boards bowing under each step. One cracked completely, dropping my leg through up to the knee. Pain shot up my shin, but I dragged myself free and kept running.
The sword Runner was closing in, his boots pounding the boards.
The balcony ended in a sharp turn. I rounded it and nearly collided with a clothesline heavy with soaked tunics. I shoved them aside, but the delay gave him ground.
The hum in my palm flared. I dropped low just as his blade swept through the air where my head had been.
My body moved before my mind caught up—I slammed my shoulder into his gut, catching his sword arm. The heat between us spiked, sharp enough to make him hiss and jerk back. The blade clattered over the railing, tumbling into the street below.
Before I could press the advantage, a second shadow landed hard at the far end of the balcony—the crossbow Runner.
He fired.
I twisted, the bolt tearing a hole through my sleeve but missing flesh. My boots slipped on the wet wood as I ducked into the nearest doorway.
Inside was a cramped room smelling of mold and old rope. A ladder led up through a hatch in the ceiling. I climbed without thinking, bursting into an attic low enough that I had to crawl. Rain drummed on the shingles inches above my head.
The sound of pursuit faded. For a moment, all I heard was my breathing and the distant creak of the building settling.
Then—
A soft thud on the roof.
Another.
They were above me.
The hum in my palm surged, and I moved toward the far side of the attic. A loose board gave way under my weight, dropping me into the rafters of an open-air market below.
The place was half-empty, the late hour and rain keeping most shoppers away. Only a few stall owners remained, their goods covered in oiled cloth. From my vantage point above, I could see the sword Runner forcing his way through the stalls, scanning the walkways.
I climbed down the far side, landing behind a stack of crates. The air here smelled of salt and something sweet—candied nuts from a nearby vendor.
I darted between stalls, keeping my head low, using the cover of awnings. The market spilled into another street lined with scaffolding where workers were repairing a collapsed roof. I took the narrow planks two at a time, climbing higher, until I was level with the second-floor windows.
One window stood open, light spilling onto the scaffolding. I slipped inside.
It was a workshop of some kind, the walls hung with tools, half-carved wood scattered across a table. The smell of sawdust filled my lungs.
Voices came from the far end. I froze behind a workbench.
"…you saw the spiral?" one voice asked, deep and rough.
"Aye. Marked on the hand," said another, quieter.
"You know what that means, then."
"Means the streets'll follow him. Means we don't touch him unless we're paid very well."
I risked a glance—two men hunched over a map of the city, small markers pinned into districts I didn't recognize. One of the markers was a spiral.
I slipped out through the back door, into an alley so tight I had to turn sideways to pass. The brick scraped my shoulders, and the air smelled of rust and stagnant water.
The alley opened into a courtyard. At its center was a covered drain, water swirling in a slow spiral before vanishing into black.
The hum in my palm stilled, like it had been holding its breath.
Resting against the drain cover was a strip of black cloth, stitched in silver thread with the same spiral I'd seen in the workshop map.
This time, the spiral glowed faintly.