The spiral cloth had stopped glowing by the time I left the courtyard.
But the image wouldn't fade—the five coiled turns, the tail curling back, the faint throb of silver light before it stilled.
I walked. Slowly, but with purpose. My hood hung heavy from the mist, each drop soaking into the fabric until it pulled at my neck. I didn't dare run—not yet. Running drew eyes. Eyes led to questions. And questions here didn't come from curiosity.
The Crooked District had been chaos, noise, life spilling over itself. Here, the noise was quieter, but sharper. Every sound was clear in the damp air: a hinge creaking, water dripping from a rusted spout, boots scuffing stone.
It wasn't empty, though.
A woman sat cross-legged under a crumbling arch, surrounded by cages of pale, long-eared birds. Their eyes followed me in unison as I passed, necks twitching. She said nothing, but her gaze slid to my hand before drifting away.
I had a quick fluctuation of uneasiness but it went away just as soon as it came.
Three men carried a crate between them, each of their faces hidden under woven reed masks. The crate shifted with a wet slosh as they turned down a narrow side street.
A child crouched in the gutter, drawing shapes in the mud with a stick. Spirals, mostly. Some were smudged through the middle, like they'd been crossed out.
I moved faster.
Up ahead, lamplight spilled from a cloth-draped archway. The cloth was once blue, but years of rain and grime had dulled it to a grey-green. The edges were frayed into tassels by wind.
Inside was a courtyard half-covered by patched sailcloth. Lanterns hung from ropes stretched overhead, their flames guttering in the damp air. Wooden tables filled the space, most empty, the few patrons hunched over mugs as if hiding from each other.
I chose a corner with a clear view of the entrance.
The woman who brought my drink didn't ask what I wanted—she just set a chipped mug in front of me. Steam curled upward, carrying a smell I didn't recognize. Earthy. Bitter. Faintly metallic, like the tang before a lightning strike.
Two men sat at a table near the wall. One was older, his hair the color of wet rope, his fingers stained green as though he'd been handling herbs. The other was younger, a jagged scar cutting from temple to jaw.
"…I told you," the older man was saying, his voice carrying in the low hum of the room. "Once the mark's on you, it's not about who you are anymore. It's about what you're carrying."
The younger man frowned. "And you're sure it was a spiral?"
"Not the street kind," the older replied, shaking his head. "Five turns inward, tail cutting back out. That's a Hunter's mark."
The younger swore softly. "Then he's done for. Streets'll swallow him whole."
The older leaned forward, lowering his voice. I caught only fragments—"sigils don't find people by accident… they choose… city remembers."
From another table came a different voice, low and urgent:
"That's superstition. Marks can be bought. Paid for in blood if you know the right doors to knock on."
"No," another said. "Bought marks don't hum. They rot."
My grip tightened on the mug. The hum in my palm stayed quiet, but it felt… alert. Listening.
One of the men shifted in his seat, eyes sweeping the room. For a moment they paused on me. I dropped my gaze, pretending to sip my drink until they looked away.
I left soon after, slipping back under the archway into the mist.
The streets beyond were narrower, their cobblestones slick underfoot. Laundry lines sagged overhead, dripping steadily. A door opened ahead of me, spilling warm light into the alley, but it closed again before I reached it.
Halfway down the street, I caught it—a faint vibration in my palm. Not the full hum from the chase, but a thread tugging in a certain direction.
I followed.
It led me through a crooked lane where the buildings leaned toward each other, their upper floors so close they almost touched. A cat slipped out from between barrels, its fur patchy, one ear torn. It stared at me for a long moment before vanishing into the shadows.
The tug grew stronger at a narrow passage between two warehouses. The walls here were slick with something darker than rain. I edged through sideways, boots scraping brick.
At the far end, a warped wooden door sat crooked in its frame. I pushed, and it opened into a short hall lined with shelves. Jars filled the space—roots knotted like fists, powders the color of rust, liquids that shifted when I looked too long.
The smell was overwhelming—earth and rot and sharp citrus undercut with something chemical.
Behind the counter at the end stood a man with a shaved head and pale eyes. He was slicing pale roots into curling strips, each falling into a clay bowl.
"You're not here for medicine," he said without looking up.
I froze.
His eyes lifted, meeting mine. "But you need it all the same."
He reached under the counter, pulling out a small pouch. "Smell."
I hesitated.
"It won't hurt you."
I opened the pouch and was hit with a dry, herbal scent. Clean, almost sweet, but with a faint bitterness at the back of my throat.
"Carry it," the man said. "When the streets notice you, burn half. When they start following, burn it all."
"Who are you?" I asked.
He smiled faintly. "Someone who's seen too many spirals."
His gaze flicked to my left hand—just for a moment—before he returned to slicing.
I left the shop with the pouch in my pocket.
The mist outside had thickened into a light drizzle. I walked fast, but the feeling of being watched clung to me.