Sikakama stopped at Valerion Square, at the end of Ivory Crinolin Street.
"Can you wait for me here? I'll be back soon."
She didn't wait for Milo's answer.
The moment the words left her lips, she turned and set off, leaving him no time to ask what she had in mind.
"Wait—where are you going?"
His voice followed her from behind, but she didn't turn around.
She headed toward one of the streets leading deeper into the city, quickening her pace at first before settling into a steady walk.
She knew where she was going.
She had no intention of staying long.
She only wanted to see him before leaving Pendralice.
Across the street, the familiar row of windows came into view, one of them belonging to Sian's apartment.
For a moment, she simply looked at it, but before she could take another step, an oppressive sensation settled over her—something she felt before she could understand it.
Eyes.
Watching her.
Sikakama slowly turned her head to the right.
Sikakama slowly turned her head to the right. Farther down the street, a figure stood motionless, wrapped in a dark cloak with the hood obscuring most of his face. He wasn't moving—simply standing there, watching.
She quietly turned away, lowering the hood of her crimson cloak slightly as she continued on, but she had barely taken a few steps when another figure caught her eye. He stood beside a marble fountain, wearing the same dark cloak, his posture unnervingly still.
Sikakama kept walking as though she hadn't noticed them, allowing herself only a brief glance across the square. Another figure. Then another. Five in total.
Without realizing it, they had spread themselves throughout the square, never close enough together to attract attention, yet positioned so that every route she might take already had one waiting.
They weren't there by chance. They were watching her, and they had been waiting for her. One of the cloaked men finally moved, walking toward her with calm, deliberate steps. A second followed, then a third. No words were exchanged, no gestures made, yet with every step they took, the invisible circle around her grew smaller.
Suddenly, a shrill voice tore through the square.
"The bells!"
"The bells are ringing backward!"
Heads turned.
An old man stumbled forward, waving a crooked wooden cane wildly through the air. His gray beard hung nearly to his chest, and his coat had been patched so many times that its original color was long forgotten. His hat sat crookedly on his head, while his green eyes were wide and wild.
"The Devil's Hour!"
He pointed toward the sky with frantic desperation.
"It's coming!"
"Run before the shadows count your names!"
A man waved him away.
"Oh no..."
"Not him again."
"He's drunk again."
People jeered.
Within seconds, nearly everyone had turned to watch the spectacle.
Even the cloaked man nearest to Sikakama instinctively glanced toward the commotion, but when his gaze returned, she was already gone. Her crimson cloak had vanished into the sea of streets as she turned into a crowded market, weaving effortlessly through the throngs of people and merchants without slowing her pace. Behind her, the cloaked men reacted almost simultaneously.
One pushed through a cluster of spectators, while another vaulted over the shaft of a handcart instead of walking around it. A third ignored an angry merchant shouting after him as baskets of oranges overturned beneath his boots. The crowd became a wall between them and Sikakama, with ladies carrying parasols recoiling with startled cries as the pursuers forced their way through.
Sikakama darted past a heavily laden wagon a heartbeat before it rolled across the avenue. By the time the pursuers reached it, the massive vehicle had blocked their path, forcing two of them to split apart and circle around it.
The distance between them and Sikakama widened.
Only slightly.
A young chimney sweep stumbled directly into one man's path, sending soot across his cloak. The man staggered aside, colliding with an overloaded flower cart. The cart lurched violently, one of its wheels snapping loose and sending hundreds of blossoms spilling across the pavement.
The commotion startled two nearby horses, which suddenly reared and bolted sideways, blocking the broad avenue as their driver struggled desperately to bring them under control.
Sikakama crossed the enormous square beneath rows of fluttering royal banners.
There was nowhere left to vanish.
Then she saw it.
A narrow archway opened between the neighboring buildings, vanishing into darkness.
The narrow passage emptied into a secluded service court hidden behind the elegant buildings overlooking Dawn Square.
Unlike the bustling plaza beyond, the courtyard was silent.
Sikakama crossed the courtyard in a blur.
A servant carrying a crate froze in surprise as the crimson cloak swept past.
She darted through the opposite archway—and stopped.
A blank brick wall rose before her. No gate. No doorway.
Her eyes raced upward.
Weathered stone. Narrow window ledges. An iron drainpipe. A projecting cornice.
Enough.
She sprang forward, one foot striking the wall, then the other. Her fingers caught the first windowsill, pulling her upward with effortless precision. She flowed from ledge to ledge, using the drainpipe whenever the gaps widened, climbing with the speed and balance of a cat.
Below, one of the cloaked men burst into the courtyard only moments later.
Without hesitation, he followed the very same route, scaling the wall with astonishing speed. He climbed from sill to sill, closing the distance with movements so precise they felt almost inhuman.
Sikakama reached the projecting cornice and pulled herself higher.
He was almost upon her.
With one final push, he sprang from a windowsill, catching the drainpipe with one hand while the other reached toward the trailing edge of her crimson cloak.
His fingertips were only inches away when a harsh metallic shriek split the courtyard. The ancient brackets fastening the drainpipe to the wall tore loose all at once, and the pipe ripped free beneath his weight.
For a heartbeat, the crimson fabric slipped beyond his grasp as he fell with the collapsing iron.
Yet before he struck the ground, he caught the edge of a windowsill with one hand and swung himself back against the wall in one impossibly fluid motion.
By then, Sikakama had already pulled herself onto the rooftop. The wind struck her face as the city opened beneath her, but a soft scrape of leather against roof tiles made her turn.
A figure stood on the neighboring roof.
Another was already moving behind him.
A third emerged from behind a chimney, while the remaining two appeared on separate rooftops, cutting off the other directions almost instantly.
Sikakama barely hesitated. Her eyes swept across the rooftops, searching for an opening.
There was only one.
Forward.
Sikakama ran.
The moment she moved, the figures behind her sprang into motion. She reached the edge of the rooftop and leapt across the gap without slowing. Her boots struck the neighboring tiles, and she immediately pushed forward.
Behind her, the figures followed. One after another, they raced across the rooftops, leaping from one building to the next with startling speed.
Across the rooftops, the chase became a race where only the fastest would prevail.
A bell rang somewhere beyond the rooftops.
Once.
Twice.
Sikakama kept running.
Ahead, dozens of crows perched upon a nearby rooftop, their black silhouettes scattered across broken chimneys and weathered tiles. More circled above, their harsh cries echoing across the old quarter.
The flock suddenly erupted into the air.
Hundreds of black wings thundered overhead, sweeping across the sky as their cries swallowed every other sound.
Sikakama did not slow down.
She reached the edge of the roof and threw herself down, landing on a stack of wooden crates below. The crates lurched beneath the impact, one collapsing while another slid sideways. Glass bottles hidden beneath the splintered timber shattered across the cobblestones.
She dropped lightly to the ground before the stack gave way completely.
She kept running.
Then, a shadow with wings swept across the ground before her.
Sikakama lifted her eyes for only a moment, still moving.
A golden arrow sliced through the air above her with a sharp whistle. Its blazing form spread into two golden, flame-like wings, resembling the outstretched wings of some unknown creature.
Sikakama's eyes followed it instinctively.
The arrow struck one of the men in the shoulder.
He fell from the rooftop, crashing into the alley below.
High above, on a weather-worn bell tower, a shadow lowered its bow.
At almost the same moment, a figure in gray dropped from a protruding stone balcony. He glided across the sloped tiles, closing in on a second man.
With swift brutality, he drove his sword straight into the man's chest. Before the body could fall, he yanked the sword free and hurled it like a spear.
It pierced the third man clean through.
The fourth man was already behind him, raising his weapon to strike. The figure in gray turned just in time, their eyes meeting as the weapon began to descend. But before the blow could land, a golden arrow tore through the air and struck the attacker in the throat. His head snapped back, his fading eyes locking onto the distant archer.
Sikakama glanced upward.
A figure stood atop a high rooftop, his cloak billowing in the wind, a bow in his hands, strands of hair spilling from beneath his hood.
Before she could make sense of what she had seen, the two figures dropped from the opposite side of the rooftops and immediately pursued the wounded man.
The wounded man staggered toward a covered drain, one hand pressed against his shoulder.
Then his entire body suddenly collapsed into a stream of black liquid.
It slipped between the gaps beneath the iron grate and disappeared into the darkness below.
The two figures stood over the drain for only a moment.
There was nothing left to seize.
---
Sikakama moved cautiously along the wall, each step slower than the last, while the oppressive silence settled around her like a heavy fog. Then, a faint rustle broke the silence. She stopped instantly.
The sound came from behind the collapsed crates.
Another rustle—soft and uneven, as though something small struggled among the broken wood.
She remained perfectly still as the sound grew louder. A crate shifted, then tipped over, and something black stumbled into the open—a crow.
Its wings beat wildly in confusion as it staggered across the alley.
A small glass cup had become wedged firmly over its head, leaving the poor creature completely blind.
It collided with a barrel, recoiled, then walked straight into the wall. Letting out an indignant caw, it flapped again and spun in the opposite direction.
The absurd sight momentarily dissolved the tension gripping the alley.
Sikakama slowly crouched. The crow froze, sensing her movement despite seeing nothing. She reached out with careful hands, and the bird struggled briefly before growing still. Her fingers gripped the rim of the glass. With a gentle twist, the cup slipped free.
The crow jerked its head upward, blinking rapidly, then ruffled its feathers until they settled neatly back into place. For several seconds, it remained where it was, watching her, its glossy black eyes reflecting the pale daylight filtering into the alley.
Then it slowly tilted its head, curiously. It gave a quiet caw before spreading its wings and lifting into the air with a single powerful beat. But instead of disappearing, it landed atop the low stone wall at the end of the alley.
Again, it looked back at her and tilted its head.
"Fly, Little Crow."
Then she turned and left the alley.