Techno grimaces, gritting his teeth as he continues through the streets.

The morning is hazy grey, damp, and generally miserable. Pools of muddy rainwater gleam against the rough cobbled paths and the soft flame of the streetlamps still hasn't been extinguished, flickering dimly against the brightness of day. Fallen leaves in varying shades of coppery orange and golden yellow litter the ground, their once beautiful colours coated with grime, ground into the stone from the treading of heavy footsteps.

He shivers, pulling his cloak tighter, but it is still thoroughly wet from the storm last night and does little to stop the cold wind that seems to pull warmth out of him, a demon that sucks the life from his body with icy talons. It did, however, press against his wounded shoulder, and he gives a hiss of pain, twisting to glance at the bandages he had hastily wrapped around it. He curses softly as he catches a glimpse of how tattered his cloak was – the assassin last night had cut away at the edges and chunks of fabric hung, tattered, like broken wings.

The cut has stopped bleeding, which is good, but still sends bold flares of pain through his arm whenever he touches it. He narrows his eyes and continues onwards. He can live with a little bit of pain.

His mind flickers back to the night before, exhaustion tugging at his thoughts. He remembers it with startling clarity – how it had all started, and the moment his life had been turned upside down.

The fresh smell in the air before rain, the heavy clouds that had rolled through the sky, blotting out the sun. He was going to the market, a small pouch of coins jingling at his side.

He had been walking through the streets, each breath coming to life in a shimmering stream of mist in front of him, the new chill of the coming winter biting at any exposed skin. He had shoved his hands in his pockets hurriedly. He would have been cold, but with his wings tightly folded against his back and their warmth radiating firmly against his cloak, he felt warm. He has always found it odd how his wings did that, but after years of questions, determined it was just a Phoenix thing.

He remembered asking Phil about it when his feathers were first growing in, and his elder brother had turned to him, face grave.

Their father was a busy man, far too occupied with running the Kingdom to bother with his sons, and as the eldest, so it had fallen to Phil to raise the rest of them. So naturally, it had been Phil that Techno had confided in, about his mysterious amber and copper streaked wings that shimmered with more colours of fire than he could ever hope to name.

He remembered Phil's reply too, that would be forever engraved in his memory. Clear blue eyes meeting his own, soft and worried and so grown up for just a child. (Too grown up.)

"Do not show your wings to anyone." Phil grabbed him by the shoulders and didn't shake him, but came close, grip firm. "It must remain a secret." Phil was good at hiding the panic in his voice and Techno could only hear it in his mind as he replayed the scene now, older.

"Phoenixes are rare, and feared." Phil exhaled, each word spoken in a hushed whisper, yet Techno could hear each one crystal clear. "If they find out... They will hurt you. You must be careful."

Techno had blinked, eyes wide. "Am I really dangerous?"

Phil gave a faint, fond smile. "For sure. But only to your enemies, I reckon."

Techno nodded. "I- I'll be careful." But he was scared, terrified. Phil sighed.

"Look mate, you're not alone. You're never alone. We'll always be here for you, okay? Don't forget that." He patted Techno on the head. Techno had nodded.

He had been so young, so naïve, so hopelessly clueless in the world, yet even then he understood the gravity of Phil's words. There were thousands of questions he had wanted to ask, but Phil had shushed him softly and taken him on an expedition around the castle where he eventually found a long, red cloak and draped it gently over Techno's shoulders. It had been far too long back then, dragging over the cold marble floors.

"I think it fits," Phil had declared, and Techno had gasped dramatically.

"It's too big." He pouted.

Phil gave a faint laugh. "You'll grow into it."

Grow into it he did. He has half a mind to think that if he survives the next week or so, he would have to try to find a way to replace his cloak. He can't wear this miserable tattered scrap forever, however fond of it he may be.

But after all that time...

Techno didn't understand Phoenixes. Still doesn't.

He had read all the old books he could dig up in the library, hundreds of hours spent alone at night with only the dancing light of a candle to keep him company as he scoured page after page. He had found lots of interesting things there: Phoenix wings, and by extension, Phoenix powers, were passed down through bloodlines – and that supposedly, there once was Phoenix blood in the royal family, although that line had died out. He knows that isn't true though, he is all the proof anyone could ever ask for.

Birds of fire, the books said, with the power to raze cities to the ground leaving behind only ashes. Symbols of rebirth, they embody both life and death.

Some say they may glimpse the future, though it too is argued that if that were the case, Phoenixes long would have succeeded in wiping out all other species.

That isn't true, he remembers thinking indignantly. He would never do such a thing.

Yet for all the dramatic tales the books spun, never did they say exactly how Phoenixes were powerful. Sure, they came back after death sometimes (the records all disagreed with each other on how the reincarnation worked), and could supposedly see the future (sometimes), but what else? Surely there was something else he was missing, a key to the puzzle he had never been able to solve.

But then, yesterday, something happened.

He doesn't quite know what, but when he was almost at the market, he felt something shift within him. An odd urge to fly, as if someone had tied an invisible string around his heart and was yanking it forcefully towards the sky, and then there was an almost painful tingling in his fingers. He swears he saw a single spark flicker into existence for a heartbeat, but it was gone in an instant, leaving him wondering whether it had even been real.

And then, a vision.

A flash of red, and the ice-cold glint of a blade. A wave of blood that engulfed him – he couldn't breathe, the stench of iron clogging up his mouth and nose, his world suddenly a violent expanse of crimson. A scream tore through the air, echoing around him hauntingly, before being abruptly cut short, and Techno had shaken his head, trying to do something, anything, because he knew that scream.

Then the blood receded, and he stood, panting, staring at a single figure standing smugly in the distance. A nameless assassin, blade shining spotlessly as he stalked through an alleyway, face shadowed against the sun that slipped slowly down to the horizon.

He blinked, and it was gone as suddenly as it had come.

He shook his head dully, finding himself standing in the middle of the road, right where he had been before whatever that had been. No one around him gave any indication that he had been acting oddly, so he kept walking, heart pounding, the taste of blood still lingering in his throat.

It scared him, but he recognized the alleyway in the vision – he would go there first. After all, he recognized the scream.

It was Phil.

There hadn't been enough time to warn anyone – if the vision was real, he had until sunset which was only a few minutes away.

And, as if by magic. An assassin dressed exactly how the one in the vision had been, unarmed when Techno chanced upon him, but blade in hand when Techno lunged at him with his own weapon. A quick clash, and then he tried to flee. Techno made sure he put a stop to that plan as well.

He had been successful, of course. The assassin had led him on a chase throughout much of the night, but he had won. It would have been embarrassing to lose, he reflects with a thin veil of amusement, considering his status as one of the top swordsmen in the seven cities.

His amusement fades in the next heartbeat. He can't go home, not after that.

Silently, he stares down for a moment at the pendent in his hand: an obsidian feather, raindrops gleaming like pearls as they slide down its flinty surface. It had been tied around the sword hilt of the assassin.

The mark of the Circle of Vultures.

They were perhaps the single largest and most feared crime circle that existed, spanning all cities in a hidden chain linking the black markets and dark webs in one brutal, ruthless organization. They took bounties and ran a secret system of selling rare wing species. As if, he thinks with disgust, they were but sweets on display in the window of a bakery. Perhaps it is his Phoenix bias speaking, but the Circle deserves to die.

And, in case anyone needs another reason to dislike them:

All their assassins were taken as children, snatched off the streets or stolen from orphanages, then trained so thoroughly that by the time they were ready to work, they didn't know the difference between mercy and death.

Of course, Techno has no doubt many of these rumours, though seeded in truth, have a flair of overdramatized exaggeration to them. But there was one saying he will never doubt:

The Circle has eyes everywhere, and they would never forget a grudge.

So if they knew that it was Techno who had killed one of their members, his family would never be safe anywhere again. Royalty or not, they would be marked out on some list somewhere, and a few sunrises from now... well, blood would be spilled.

He has to keep the rest of them safe... which is why he is now fleeing, each step bringing him further from everything he knows and loves.

Of course, they had just sent an assassin after the King. But that... well. Fate was funny sometimes.

He has a little scrap of paper in his hands, retrieved from the fallen Vulture. It's still soggy around the edges from the downpour last night, but if he's gentle, he can unfold it without it tearing.

It reads simply:

King: Phoenix. Handle with caution. Dia. I. (4)

Orders no doubt. Orders issued by someone who apparently believes Phil is a Phoenix. He doesn't know what the rest means, but that much is clear.

If Techno isn't currently trying to not kneel over from his shoulder that feels like it's on fire, he'd be tempted to sit down and laugh a while. He can't stay though, he must keep moving no matter how stupidly, cruelly hilarious the situation was.

He had left a Phoenix feather with the body of the assassin. A crude calling card, perhaps. But he needs them to know that he is the one behind it. He needs them to change their target, and he needs them to do it now.

He has no question they will figure out it was him. After all, the Circle has ears everywhere. And once they do? Phil will be safe.

The Circle does not kill for the sake of killing: they kill to collect rare wings (an equally stupid reason, if you asked him). If he removes the sole reason they had to go after Phil, they'll leave the King alone. The Circle is wonderfully predictable like that.

The only problem now is that they want to murder him. A minor flaw to his plan he hasn't quite ironed out, but he's certain he will eventually. He's a survivor, a fighter, and he isn't about to let this change things.

But for now? He has to hide. To run, to leave everything he knows behind.

His heart twists as he thinks about Tommy's radiant smile and Wilbur's bright voice and Phil's gentle gaze. He wants to be with them, to laugh and cry together, as one. Even die together?

That thought, he recognizes, will lead nowhere good. He shuts it down along with every last sliver of wishfulness that told him to turn back toward the palace. That wasn't happening. Not today, not tomorrow - perhaps not ever.

He forces himself onwards, a cold heaviness settling over his anguish. If he truly loves them, he must stay away, as far away as possible. He has to keep them safe, not sandwich them between himself and the Circle.

There is no going back now.