Vintowl, the dusk-runner, known for his speed and ghostlike movements across rooftops, is late. Not for a contract. Not for a target. But for her.
High atop the tallest spire in Hollowridge, where the wind speaks in whispers and only the stars dare to listen, Owlyn waits. A mysterious girl with the eyes of a silent predator and the soul of the skies. Half myth, half memory.
They meet only on the highest perch, once every lunar cycle. But this time, Vintowl miscalculated—the city grid jammed, his grappler failed, and the minutes slipped away like feathers in the storm.
Now, with nothing but instinct and legs forged by countless escapes, Vintowl bounds from ledge to ledge, rebounding off broken air ducts and crumbling billboards, chasing the summit like a man chasing redemption.
Every second he’s late, the chance of seeing Owlyn fades like mist in sunlight. And he knows—miss the meeting, and she vanishes with the wind.
No checklists. No maps. Just rhythm, momentum, and a single vow pounding in his chest:
“Not this time.”
