i. 

“If I was a ground-diggin’, sand-slinkin’ creepy-crawly, I wouldn’t make my nest in solid rock,” says Techno, peering over the edge of the cavern’s abrupt drop-off. “Seems like a counterintuitive place to make your base.”

Phil hums, noncommittal. 

Techno rocks his weight away from the ledge before continuing, “I’m just sayin’, if a pair of competent adventurers got called in—that’s the two of us, by the way—”

“I figured,” Phil says absently. 

“—there’d be no good way to chase ‘em off except with a frontal assault. Tactically, that—that’s pretty bad. Can’t burrow through the walls to scare ‘em, can’t even get away quickly. What’s the point of having a homefield advantage if you can’t put it to use?”

At that, Phil laughs. He drops his focus from the spell and lets his wings furl, dark feathers vanishing under the enchanted haori that guards his back. “I don’t pretend to understand sand worm behavior, mate,” he tells Techno, amused. “But it is weird, though.”

Techno narrows his eyes. “You pick up on somethin’?” 

“Not through the spell,” Phil says. A full Detect Evil And Good may be overkill for what’s essentially a bit of pest control, but years of dungeon crawling have turned this precaution into a habit. There might still be something down there, hopefully the worm they’re hunting, but it won’t be anything celestial or fiendish. Phil scrapes a boot across the ground and continues, “You’re right that it’s weird for something like sand worms to make nests like… this. But maybe it’s to defend against other diggers, or to keep their babies from wandering off.”

Techno lets his hand fall away from the hilt of his axe and makes a disgusted noise, only mostly performative. “Oh, great. A bunch of soon-to-be orphans is exactly what we need right now.”

“Better the foe you know than one you don’t,” Phil teases, and Techno grumbles good-naturedly before kicking a loose pebble over the edge. 

Both of them wait in silence for the pebble to impact the unseen bottom, but the seconds pass undisturbed. No sound of an impact echoes up the cliffside. 

Phil raises a brow at Techno. 

“Wow, a bottomless pit,” Techno deadpans. “It’s a scientific marvel. Well, seeing as you’re the one with wings—”

A bellowing roar cuts him off with enough force to shake the cavern, shuddering through stone. Dust rains down, and from the abyss charges up a massive shadowed form that snarls and snaps at the ledge. 

The ground beneath Techno cracks as talons and teeth tear against it. Techno stumbles, opening his mouth, but Phil has already flared his wings open in a lunge.

He grabs Techno’s armor, finding the same crevices to latch onto as always, and hauls him up with a series of frantic wingbeats before either of them can plummet into the abyss. 

Or into the toothy maw that suddenly fills the space, screeching furiously at them.

Techno, too used to this maneuver to wriggle, simply reaches around to draw his axe. “The heck kinda sand worm is that?” he demands, slashing his palm across the sharp pommel to spark a Blood Curse. The blade lights up red, casting a crimson glow on the scaly hide writhing below them, but Phil can’t see the effects from here. Techno winces, muttering, “Shush it, I know what I’m doin’.”

The creature snarls, clawing into the wall with enough force to bring down the ceiling, only worms don’t have claws, or that neck frill, or those sharp eyes welling with blood—

A boulder drops from the ceiling and smashes into Phil’s left wing, scattering feathers and snapping bone and, most importantly, knocking Techno out of his grasp.

Ice shoots through Phil’s veins. His breathing hitches for just a moment as the world narrows down to that fluttering red cape and gleaming metal armor tumbling from view. 

“Techno!” Phil shouts, trying to dive towards his friend. His good wing tucks in obediently, but the other throbs in pain, warm and wet and limp as it turns his descent into a steep, uncontrollable spiral.

He can’t even see Techno anymore, he can’t see anything but the not-a-sand-worm’s cruel fangs parting to welcome him into its gullet.

Fuck. Fuck, this isn’t how he thought he’d meet his Matron again. 

Not yet. Please. Techno’s still somewhere… 

A cool breeze ruffles through his torn and bleeding feathers like a caress as he falls. The faintest whisper of a laugh reaches his ears. Yes. Not yet, my love.

Red light flickers in the corner of his eye, and he’s jerked to a stop sudden enough to wrench his shoulder. 

It hurts in a way that means he’ll probably be relying on his sword over his bow for the rest of this fight, but even that isn’t enough to stop the relief rushing through him when he looks up to see Techno holding onto his arm, hanging off the sheer cliff with his axe.

“Oof,” Techno says with more levity than the situation affords. “Yeah, I got him. Guess birds are weak to rock after all, what do you know.”

“Wyrm!” Phil blurts out, just barely audible over the creature howling in anger and his left wing howling in agony. “Not worm, wyrm! The guild got it wrong. It’s a fucking earthen greatwyrm, not a sand worm!” 

Techno’s expression twists, and then he snorts. “Okay, good news and bad news. Good news, the maladict I used actually works, because this thing’s got eyes. Bad news, we’re never relyin’ on guild intel ever again. Yes, that’s bad news, chat, don’t get cheeky with me. Means we gotta do our own recon in the future. That’s so much extra work.”

The wyrm whips its tail at them, pinpointing their position by sound, but Phil narrows his eyes and the star-studded voidscape of his Shield of Faith slams up in time to deflect the blow.

Still, they slide down a few inches before Techno forces the axe in deeper with a grunt. 

“So, not that I hate hangin’ around like this, but we do have a wyrm to kill,” Techno says.

“Working on it,” Phil replies. He draws his sword, concentrating, and the blade flashes as Staggering Smite wreathes it with psychic energy. A claw swings down at them, and Phil flips up to swing right back, Benihime screaming in blood-curdling joy as he sinks it hilt-deep in the wyrm’s limb. The blade pulses, ringing out another dose of damage before pulling free as the wyrm flinches back. 

It’s not enough to chase it back into the deeper dark, though.

He looks back at Techno and decides, “We need a foothold.”

“No, I do,” Techno drawls, glancing up now that Phil’s perched on the upper half of his body. “All you need is a surface that holds still long enough, like my head, apparently. Don’t let me hold you back.”

Phil grins. “Aw, mate, you’re not holding me back. Holding me up, maybe. Thanks for the catch.”

Orphan Obliterator’s glowing red edge glints off the curve of a tusk as Techno grins right back. “If one falls, the other catches,” he says, easy and confident. “S’what we do.”

No further words pass between them; Phil knows to set his feet against the cliff as Phil yanks his axe free, and together they roll safely under another lashing claw until they reach the next ledge jutting from the crag.

The wyrm shakes its head and growls, coils shifting in and out of sight behind its frilled neck. Oddly, dark green specks fleck its head, but there’s no time to process that as it launches at them in another attack.

Far below, something clicks and hums and shrieks. When the wyrm’s body inevitably falls, torn asunder by the Wings of the Crow Matron and the Veins of the Blood God, the skulk catches it. 

But that comes later.

ii. 

Between each thunderous wingbeat, Phil wheels back in to shout at the figure clinging to its back.

“How’s it looking, Techno?”

“Just peachy!” Techno hollers back. He’s buried his hands in the crow-roc’s feathery scruff, trying to lay as flat as possible against the pitch-black feathers to avoid getting blown off. “The controls on this thing suck, though. Down, bird. Slowly, down!”

The crow-roc does not heed him, and instead chases after Phil with single-minded fury, talons raking through the air as Phil bobs and weaves between blows.

In the animal’s defense, Phil and Techno had kind of intruded in its nest, and they probably resembled very closely the poachers that like to steal eggs from high peaks. Only, all Phil needed was a rare white feather from that single splotch of pale feathers on its breast, and he’d had the idea that taking it from the ground near the nest would probably be less stressful than trying to pluck the live bird, and hadn’t realized just how closely it was watching its territory. 

Neither of them want to hurt it, as it’s sacred to Phil’s Matron.

Somehow, all that has led to this: Techno holding on for dear life as Phil attempts to lure it close enough to the ground for him to jump off, because if he tries that now, Phil won’t be agile enough while carrying him to avoid getting smacked out of the air. 

Phil folds his wings in and drops between a set of razor-sharp talons that are probably just as blessed as the jade-beaded feather swinging from Benihime’s tassel. They still tear through his bucket hat, unfortunately shredding it to bits, but better that than his skull. A flap of his own wings brings him to the crow-roc’s rear, forcing the bird to cut its forward-upward momentum and swing around to face him again.

“I could probably just tank the fall,” Techno says for what feels like the hundredth time. “What’s a little splat to a bloodhunter anyway. Chat thinks it would be funny, and you could patch me up after.”

“I am not a cleric,” Phil reminds loudly, and zips just barely out of beak-snapping range. His ability to heal is enough to take the edge off Techno’s Crimson Rites and Blood Maledicts, but little more. 

Techno shouts something else that’s lost to the winds as the crow-roc careens towards Phil again. The bird croaks at him, annoyed, when he drops lower to avoid the attack.

The trick is to keep the descent subtle enough that the crow-roc doesn’t balk and fly off entirely and reset the whole process. No matter what, Phil doubts Techno will have a completely safe drop, but they’ll settle for a survivable one. 

In the meantime, Phil continues to dance through the air, using his more agile build to stay just barely out of striking range. Matching black wings buffet and skim past each other, interrupted only when Phil feints right and the crow-roc lurches left and they nearly collide in the middle.

Phil’s faster, wings already positioned for a tight turn, and the air slips through his primaries with a rush of adrenaline-laced glee before he barrel rolls out of immediate danger.

Except something snags on his boot. 

Phil looks back to see the ebony beak shut against his ankle, big beady eyes squinting in concentration. 

Instinct demands he flap harder, fly faster, and pull free—but what would that accomplish? Restart the dance and weave, sure, but his goal isn’t to fight the bird. All he has to do is make it lower itself.

Caught like this, Phil makes a split-second decision and just… drops.

He stills his wings but keeps them half-splayed, turning his tugging force into the most awkward of dead weights. Luckily, the crow-roc responds by biting down harder instead of letting go.

“Techno!” he shouts, as the bird struggles to straighten out its flight path. “Blind it!”

If Techno responds, Phil doesn’t hear it. He does, however, see the panicked way the crow-roc swings its head around, pulling Phil with it. A thin layer of red coats and overflows from its eyes, soaking into the feathers below.

Phil twists, reaches up to grab the beak with his own hands, and flaps fervently. Trying to fly downward while backwards sucks, fighting against every flight instinct he’s gained over the years, but with every push of his wings, Phil manages to force the bird to dip its head. Its body follows, and then quite suddenly they’re heading down at dizzying speed as the crow-roc thrashes in a panic. 

Techno’s Blood Curse wears off, but by then they’ve lost enough altitude and gained enough momentum that Philza feels comfortable letting the bird shake him off.

Peeling a short distance away, Philza waits. 

He isn’t waiting long. 

While the crow-roc fights to recover, mere hundreds of meters above the earth, Techno takes a flying leap from its back. He’s little more than a smear of pink and gleaming metal, and when Phil darts through the air to match him, he hears Techno saying, “—me to jump and changin’ your minds after I’m already fallin’ is useless, you guys—oh, hey, Phil.”

“Hey, Tech,” Phil says, already reaching to grab him. With the crow-roc distracted trying to orient itself, he has time to slowly correct Techno’s fall into a less life-threatening glide. “How was your flight aboard the Matron’s crow-roc?”

“Zero out of ten stars, do not recommend,” Techno says. “Talk about flying the unfriendly skies. Roc airlines needs some heavy improvement, let me tell you. So much improvement.”

Phil laughs. “I’ll let my boss know.”

“Speaking of,” Techno says, “I got what she wanted.” He reaches into his cloak’s enchanted inner pockets and withdraws a massive white feather, easily half as tall as either of them.

It glistens in the sunlight, the pale coloring turning pearly and incandescent at odd angles.

Overhead, the crow-roc wheels through the sky and takes off, glad enough to be rid of them to not attempt another attack. 

“It’s less what she wants and more what the temple wants for their ceremony,” Phil says, watching the sacred beast vanish into the distance, “but thanks. I’d hate to think we risked your life for nothing.”

“Pfft, what risk,” Techno says. He tucks the feather away. “I would've been fine.”

“Uh-huh. You would’ve been fine after a drop from, what, kilometers up?”

Techno doesn’t miss a beat. “Yup. It’s true what they say, that Technoblade never dies.”

They’ve just about reached the ground at this point. Phil flaps one last time, steadying, before letting Techno’s feet hit the dirt. And then he swats at Techno’s shoulder, too quick to dodge but too light to move him at all. “No thanks to the one constantly saving you from fall damage?”

Techno’s ears twitch, the way they always do when the gibbering rambles of his chat get a little too loud. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, warm beneath the long-suffering overtone. “No dying under the watch of the Angel of Death.”

Angel of Death, huh. The voices of Techno’s Mad Old One cycle through a variety of nicknames, though this is a new one—not quite Wings of the Matron, but close enough to have Phil’s wings puffing up with satisfaction. 

“Right,” Phil says, pleased despite himself. 

Techno pokes at his wing, like trying to let air out of a balloon, and nearly gets a mouthful of feathers in return. “C’mon,” he says, lightheartedly shoving the limb away from himself. “Let’s get back to that temple of yours before we get distracted for the billionth time.” 

“Gods grant us strength,” Phil deadpans, but doesn’t protest as Techno cards his fingers through the worst of Phil’s flight-ruffled feathers, smoothing them down with a gentle touch. 

iii. 

Retrieval isn’t Phil and Techno’s specialty, but that’s not to say they’re bad at it. 

They’re just… not very subtle about it.  

In other words, there’s a time limit on their infiltration, and it’s however long it takes for this patrol of guards to wake up again.

Or however long it takes for someone to realize they’re missing. 

“Wups,” Techno says, casually breaking the knob off the door before swinging it shut on the pile of limp bodies they’ve shoved into a closet. He breaks the knob off the outside too, with an insincere, “Double oops.”

Phil exhales sharply, flicking the blood off Benihime before sheathing it. “Well, at least they didn’t raise the alarm.”

Honestly, that’s a little worrying. A perimeter patrol that doesn’t carry a way to immediately call for backup is a patrol there for appearances only. The interior is expected to defend itself, somehow. 

Traps. The somehow is normally traps, and many of them. 

Techno hums under his breath, probably coming to a similar conclusion. The red glow of his axe fades, taking any blood splatter with it, as he puts it away. “Here’s where I regret not multiclassin’ into rogue,” he says, and then jangles the key ring he lifted off a knocked-out guard. “But where there’s a will, we make a way.”

A quick sift through the keys reveals nothing labeled with ‘disarm all traps’, nor a similar lock, so the pair step lightly and quietly shut the door behind them as they sneak into the building proper. 

“Pretty pricey for a museum,” Phil murmurs, eyeing the plaque declaring an entrance fee of a diamond stack.

“It’s a glorified trophy hall,” Techno says disdainfully. “If you want a real museum, there’s a local-built one in Empires for their excavations, like, a few days’ ride from here. A guy called Pixel runs it, I think. This is just—this is, ‘hey, look what we got! Don’t look too close at how we got it though!’ Yeah, it’s super cringe. Basically stealin’.”

A corner of Phil’s lip twitches upward. “Oh, so now you’re morally opposed to theft?”

“I’ve always been morally opposed to theft,” Techno says, lying through his teeth.

“Uh-huh.”

Techno snorts. “Okay, I’m morally opposed to theft by the rich and powerful who take what they want from people who need it. Like, cultural and religious stuff. And wages. And pieces of gods that are, like, psychically radioactive.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like it,” Phil says, and then stops Techno with a tap of Benihime’s sheath to his side. “Wait. See that?”

A pause, and then, “Oh, I see it.”

The floor is elegantly tiled, patterned in alternating golds and whites that only further reinforce that this museum isn’t really meant for high traffic. Just ahead, one of the tiles has the barest crack of distance between itself and the rest of the floor, just slightly off from being flush with everything else.

Looking ahead, Phil spots another one several paces further down the hall.

“Pressure plates,” he says. 

“We’re not gonna set them off just to see what they do,” Techno says, only half to Phil. “If we’re lucky, it’ll just be poison darts or the like. If we’re not, it’ll be magic, and that’ll really suck. We can’t get caught by a pressure plate trap, I refuse, everyone’s gonna laugh at us for fallin’ for the oldest trick in the book.”

Phil says, “We can trip them on the way out to see what they do, if you want.”

“I do not want,” Techno says wryly.

“And chat?”

Techno gives him a what do you think look, which makes Phil snigger. “They just wanna see some bloodshed. Anythin’ necrotic around here?”

Phil hums. His ability to sense the dark-silk-hiss of necromantic energy is strictly limited to magics that directly call for his Matron’s touch, and he doubts the owner of this establishment would dare to ask her aid when storing stolen pieces of a Mad Old One within these walls. 

Still, he probes outward with his senses. Nothing but stale air prickles at him.

“No crows,” Phil says, and they press onward.

The pressure plates continue at fairly even intervals, which makes Phil think that it’s not so much a bunch of little traps so much as a bunch of little triggers tied to a much larger danger. He’s focused on their surroundings, watching their steps and the walls and even brief, testing glances to the ceiling. 

Detail work. Means he’s letting the more obvious things pass him by, like what direction he’s even going, but that’s fine, because Techno’s presence is heavy and warm at his side. A tap on a shoulder or a tug to a wrist is enough to guide him, and Phil returns the gestures whenever he picks out the gleam of a half-hidden trap. 

And then they stop. Doors loom, locked. 

Phil takes one look before Benihime unsheathes with a ringing note, and Techno says, “Uh, Phil?”

“Rich and powerful,” Phil reminds. “Wizard, right? Pretty good chance of being overconfident in the arcane, considering the fraction of a Mad Old One being put on display instead of being returned to the outer realms.”

Realization flickers in Techno’s gaze. “That’s the kind of person who doesn’t think enough outside their own box, ‘cause they think their box is the only one there is,” he says. “So…” 

“We go around.”

“We go through,” Techno says, and the low, scrapy snarl of Orphan Obliterator echoes Phil’s own weapon. 

Walls fall to the heavy blows, not nearly as enchanted-protected as the doors themselves. They cleave through one, and then another, carving their own path through the building until Techno sucks in a sudden breath. He turns on a heel, bangs his axe-hilt in a specific spot to mark it, and steps back.

The Angel of Death steps up. Benihime hums, swinging with concussive force, his Matron’s celestial magic reinforcing the blow.

The wall crumbles.

And the whispers roar.

Phil stumbles under the onslaught, but Techno straightens towards it, into it, and when Phil looks up he sees—

—BLOOD—  

—SPLATTERS, SCREAMS, A THOUSAND EYES A THOUSAND VOICES—

—BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD—

Phil snaps back to himself when the floor swallows him.

His wings spring open on instinct, but the fall is barely long enough to do so, and it concludes with the ceiling closing up above him and his back on the ground before the first wingbeat.

The whispers have stopped, at least. Phil isn’t sure if that’s from proximity or the wall in the way, but he’s grateful.

The Blood God pledged to Techno’s hunt isn’t for the weak of heart or mind, which Phil suspects is why he’s still alive, and especially not for anyone they haven’t themselves chosen, which is why his head feels like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to it.

He groans, hands around his head and wings around that, trying to shake the lingering echoes away.

At least that’s the shard of the Mad Old One retrieved. Techno will know what to do with it. 

Phil takes a steadying breath. He sees, above him, the faintest shimmer on the wall, hidden cleverly below the flickering light of an ever-burning flame.

A Glyph of Warding. He must’ve tripped it when he stumbled back from the whispers. 

At least it hadn’t just detonated. Being detained is still an inconvenience, but easier to get away from than being exploded.

“Techno?” Phil says, getting up. He thinks he can hear movement, but it’s hard to make out through the ceiling. He takes a moment to contemplate, running a finger along the cleanly carved walls, and says, “Through it is.”

He stabs up. Benihime sinks into solid stone with a shriek, orange sparks flying off the blade. Another stab, a hand’s width away. And another, cracks spiderwebbing between each gash.

Phil withdraws, but the cracks grow on their own. Faint crimson shines through them, and Phil lets his shoulders relax as the weight falls from them.

“Techno,” he says, and this time, he gets a response.

“Hey, Phil!” comes hollering down. “Hang on, lemme just—pipe down, guys, I can’t hear myself think.”

Another splintering crack. Phil drives Benihime into the center of it, twisting to widen it, and he hears Techno grunt with effort as he splinters through the ruined floor to reach back, grasping Benihime’s blade.

It cuts him, of course, and a rolling drop of crimson travels down to the guard. But Techno is no stranger to a blade-slash, and when the last of the ceiling finally gives away to drop him down, Phil drops Benihime to catch him with a grunt.

“Mission accomplished?”

“Oh, yeah,” Techno says casually. “Chat’s, like, twice as loud now, but I can’t tell if that’s because they’re excited about what happened or because eatin’ that shard actually made more of ‘em.”

Phil decides he’s not going to ask. Getting curious about a Mad Old One is a one-way ticket to letting them rip your mind to pieces, most of the time, and Techno’s the exception that proves the rule. He says, “Sounds great, mate. Is it time for us to head out?”

“Definitely,” Techno says, “because there was an alarm that I tripped when I grabbed it and I think it sent off a firework, plus those guards have gotta be awake by now. C’mon.”

They rip through several more walls on the way out, just for fun. Techno tosses a spare dagger on a pressure plate at the behest of his chat, and when a burst of white-hot flame melts it into slag, Phil nearly trips over himself laughing as Techno yells at the voices for trying to get him to step on it.

As far as misadventures and distractions go, this isn’t so bad.

iv.

The sea breeze teases pleasantly between Phil’s feathers, tickling between each individual spine.

A crow sits on the rail before him, peering at him with eyes more filled with intelligence and life than any normal bird. She smiles at him, through the crow’s headbutt against his fingers. Phil offers her a single-stemmed bloom, the petals dry and flaking, and the crow takes it, beak gentle as it closes along his fingers.

“Hello, my love,” he whispers. “It’s been a while since I returned to the temple, hasn’t it?”

The crow bows. She winks. And then, with a flick of the tail, the crow takes off from the rail and lifts into the sky, higher, higher, vanishing into the glare of the sun.

“Aren’t we too far from shore for a crow to fly?” Techno says, stepping over to his side.

“She’ll take care of it,” Phil says. He takes a deep breath, licks the salt from his lips, and adjusts his hat. It’s hot and cloudless today, making the inside of the boat too sweltering to endure for long. “Assuming it was a real crow, and not a construct. Constructs can take care of themselves pretty well.”

Techno hums. He rests his elbows on the rail, just off from where the crow had perched, and props his chin up on his hands. “If it’s a real crow she’s teleportin’ back to the coast, is there any chance she could teleport us along too?”

Phil shakes his head. 

“Dang.”

“Not enjoying the sea air?” Phil asks.

“Eh.” Techno tips his head back, tilts an ear towards the sound of light footsteps approaching. “The accommodations could be better.”

Phil bites back a smile, turning to see the captain of the ship gasp dramatically with a hand to his chest.

“Excuse you,” says Captain Tubbo, mock-offended, “I’ll have you know that The Tubnet is a state-of-the-art seafaring vessel, the best on this side of the continent!”

Techno lifts his hands in mock surrender. “If you say so.”

“Thanks for the lift, mate,” Phil says to Tubbo, tweaking the vaguely bee-themed pirate hat atop the smaller adventurer’s head. “I know you don’t usually like coming around to this part of the sea.”

Tubbo loosens a bit, shaking the performative formality away in favor of the eager youth Phil’s grown to know. “Too many navy ships like to patrol this area,” he agrees, “but it’s nothing we can’t handle. We’re just waiting a little longer to make sure they miss us, and then we’ll un-anchor and continue. And after this, we’re even!”

“Even? I dunno about that,” Phil teases. 

“Yeah, turnin’ me in for a bounty and execution is worth more than a one-time trip aboard The Tubnet, I’d say,” Techno says. 

“You did the same thing to me!” Tubbo says, indignant.

“But I helped you break out after.”

“And you didn’t need any help breaking out, after.”

Techno grins, tusks flashing, and says with just a lick too much bloodthirst, “Touché. Which leaves us with the extra favor, doesn’t it?”

Phil tugs him by the ear to get him to knock it off before Tubbo’s hackles can rise any higher, and easily rebuffs the responding swat with a lazy wing. “A fareless ride on this boat chunks quite a bit out of that debt, I’ll give you that. Anyway. How’s the weather looking for the rest of our voyage, Tubbs?” 

“Clear all the way through, for now.” Tubbo crosses his arms, pulling his hand away from the jeweled hilt of the sword by his side. “The sea’s calm enough that some trading stations are opening below deck, if you’re looking for anything.”

“We don’t have anything to trade,” Phil says apologetically. “Our last trip didn’t exactly leave us a lot of loot.” Just more voices in Techno’s head, and a few errant artifacts that have already been returned where they belong. The mission before that yielded only a feather that Phil won’t give up for nearly anything, so the last true chance they had at looting would be… slaying that the earthen greatwyrm, a ways back.

Unfortunately, even that corpse had fallen too deep too quickly to scavenge anything from, so they’re still out of trading material.

Tubbo scrutinizes them for a moment, and then says, “Suit yourself, but they’ve some powerful stuff for trade. And sale. They’ll take gold and diamonds too, not just fancy rare items. Bartering and buying. But bartering’s more interesting, usually.”

“Maybe later,” Phil says, eyeing the open ocean. Some part of him itches to fly, to follow that crow up into the sun until he hears his Matron laughing through the whistle of the wind in his hair, but they’re still days from their destination, and he can’t fly that far in a single shot.

For now, he contents himself with jumping up onto the rail. It would be a perilous position for most, but Phil balances carefully as he straightens and lifts his wings to catch another fresh burst of wind.

Tubbo says, “Hm,” and Phil’s too busy facing into the breeze to clock the shared look Techno and Tubbo pass each other.

Which is why the heavy thump to his back catches Phil off-guard. On instinct, he grabs not for the rail but for his friends, who offer no help as he careens completely overboard towards the waves.

The water breaks his fall before his wings catch enough air to push him back up.

It’s cold. Phil sputters as he breaks the surface, looking up just in time to see Tubbo following into the ocean after him with a thin shriek.

Lifting an arm to guard himself from the splash of Tubbo crashing down next to him, Phil takes a beat to make sure the captain’s in shape to resurface before squinting back up at Techno, who looks rather pleased with himself for having dumped both his dear friend and his temporary captain overboard.

“How’s the water?” he calls down, grinning.

“Just perfect,” Phil deadpans, as Tubbo resurfaces with a gasp.

“Technoblade! I can’t believe the odd—the awe—the fucking audacity!” Tubbo hollers, shaking a fist at him and the hair from his eyes. “This is mutiny! Backstabber! We were on the same side!”

“You were leaning over the rail like a nerd,” Techno replies cheerfully from above, just barely audible over the susurrant hiss of waves crashing against the boat. “How was I supposed to resist?”

Tubbo continues spitting insults and threats, but none of it carries any true bite, so Phil focuses on lifting his wings clear of the water. A testing flap reveals most of the water repelled from the feathers, helped by the fact that his wings aren’t completely mundane, but they still feel heavy enough that getting back up into the boat will be a hassle if he tries to bring anyone (like, say, a wriggly, yelling Tubbo) with him.

He tries anyway, grabbing Tubbo and lifting him out of the water a short distance. They make it just clear of the waves before Phil gives up and drops him again, causing the boy to yelp indignantly.

“New plan,” Phil tells him, and flies alone up to Techno.

Techno, who’s rather canny to Phil’s habits now, backs away suspiciously. “Hey, we all agreed you needed a swim to cool off,” he says.

“All of you, huh?” Phil says, advancing.

“All of chat and me,” Techno says. As the distance closes between them, he amends, “More chat than me, though, numbers-wise.”

“No worries, all of you can join in,” Phil tells him, and pounces. Techno’s too good to be knocked over so easily, of course, but they go rolling across the deck messily enough that seawater gets splattered everywhere from Phil’s dripping clothes. 

A mouthful of soaked, salty feathers jams into Techno’s mouth at one point during the tussle, leaving him spitting and reeling for long enough that Phil finally gets a good enough grip to wrestle him over the railing. He falls with a loud splash, followed by the whooping and cheering of Tubbo as he cheers Phil on.

His task complete, Phil decides to lounge where he is, letting his wings fall open to dry under the blazing sun. It’s peaceful, with the slow bobbing of the vessel and the distant shouts of Tubbo and Techno fooling about in the water. 

He’s eventually persuaded to grab a rope to help the pair climb back up, though, as Tubbo wholeheartedly refuses to let Techno carve footholds into the side of The Tubnet with his axe.

v. 

Phil isn’t really one for ceremony.

As the Wings of the Matron, he gets invited to plenty of fancy clerical rituals, ranging from purely symbolic to actually divine, but most of the time he turns them down. There’s fairer winds to chase than the bored monotony of home.

The only reason he’s attending this one is because he has it on good authority that the Matron, Queen of Crows and God of Death, finds it hilarious. 

It’s the end of the year. 

Technically, this is a death—a big, immaterial, metaphorical death, but a death nonetheless—which lands the event squarely in the Matron’s domain. No god of time or nature or seasons or renewal has the seat of honor for this festival; no, this part of the holiday remains firmly in the control of the Matron’s followers, despite seasonal squabbling over the matter. 

Worship’s one thing. Phil’s certain that the squabbling’s what really gets her attention, if crows flocking in to eavesdrop all day are anything to go by. By the time the year is to be ceremoniously slain by the stroke of midnight, the birds will have left, but for now, they find entertainment in the shiny bits and juicy gossips ringing out between the streets and buildings. 

In the meantime, Phil’s already fallen into sunk-cost fallacy territory, thanks to the effort spent wrangling the crow-roc and delivering the feather. He’s already here, so he might as well participate in the grand finale.

Also, watching Techno begrudgingly shuffle along in his fanciest robes is worth every unhappy grumble.

“Lighten up, mate,” Phil says, bumping their shoulders together. It’s a tricky maneuver, with Phil’s mythril adornments nearly getting tangled in the soft white fluff collaring Techno’s decorated crimson cape, but he makes do, and the tinkling sound as they jangle remind him briefly of windchimes in a summer breeze.

“Lighten up,” Techno echoes dryly, rolling his shoulders back. An emerald earring sways on its thin golden chain, matching the brooch pinned to Phil’s robes. “This stuff’s heavy. You try lightenin’ up, Philza, with a dozen pounds of unenchanted regalia on you.”

Phil reaches over and gives Techno’s mantle a curious lift, testing its heft. He barely drags it up a hair’s breadth before letting go again with a demonstrative whoof.  

“See?” Techno says. “No weightlessness charms. This stuff’s a nightmare.”

“We should get a Hermit to look at it,” Phil says, smoothing out the creases he’d put into the fabric in his cursory attempt to lift it. “I’m sure one of them can make it functional and formal.”

“Mark that down for next time,” Techno says, like this isn’t a joke they’ve repeated every formal event they’ve ever been to.

“Someday, I actually will,” Phil tells him, “and then you’ll lose your best excuse for not attending these things.”

“I normally end up goin’ anyway,” Techno complains. He ducks, then, as an emboldened crow makes a swoop for his earring and misses. It lands instead on a passerby in the crowd, and is happy enough to pick out a glass bead from the stranger’s offered bowl before taking off into the evening gloom. Cheering follows its flight, the crowd becoming increasingly raucous as the birds wing in and out of the market stalls.

There’s a pinch of pressure between Techno’s brows, though. Each twitch of the head is just shy of too sharp, Techno’s gaze raking through the street over and over again as the patrons bustle and the birds mingle and the sheer amount of bodies grows, and grows, and grows. Paper lanterns flicker, the candles within casting long shadows behind anyone who passes.

Phil is supposed to be seen here, or at least seen ascending the steps into the grand hall of the Matron’s temple, but it’s not strictly necessary. Most everyone he cares about are already inside, and the other’s Tubbo, whose distinctive bee-themed captain’s hat can be seen halfway down the street, likely perusing a collection of magicked baubles and perfectly capable of watching his own self.

A crow flutters down to Phil’s shoulder, as though detecting his intent to deviate from his plans. It caws at him, tugging at strands of his hair.

“I’ll see you inside,” he tells his Matron through it, and the crow croons at him once more before departing.

With that tacit approval, Phil loops his arm around Techno’s and pulls them off the crowded main street. Even if he can’t hear the incessant buzz of the Blood God’s chattering, he knows it abates as fewer people mill around. 

The back alley they take is not perfectly abandoned, with a few persons seeking a breath away from the activity just like them, but much of Techno’s tension melts away as his voices fall quieter, settling in the relative privacy.

“Better?” Phil says.

Techno hums, giving Phil’s arm a squeeze before letting go. “I was dealin’.”

“I know. But it makes the holiday better if you don’t have to.”

“Happy New Year’s,” Techno drawls, and then—likely at the behest of the voices correcting him—“Eve, New Year’s Eve, yes, I know. We can’t have misinformation on today of all days.”

They head into the temple through a side entrance, mostly without hassle. Techno raises brows no matter where he goes, with the build of a fighter and the razor’s-edge dedication of a hunter, but with Phil trailblazing in front, the other clerics, paladins, and attenders divert to him instead.

“You’re late,” one admonishes, fussing over Phil’s outfit. 

“It’s not midnight yet,” he replies. 

Another priest harrumps. “It will be in a half-hour,” they say, “so you’re still cutting it too short for comfort. But better almost late than actually late. Come on, up you get, let’s get a move on—the last of the night market’s browsers will be filing in soon.”

Phil lets himself be ushered towards a set of stairs leading for a preparatory room. Heavens forbid he fly; even now, yet another draping collection of mythril chains and silken covers settle over his shoulders, giving his wings even more weight and sparkle and guaranteeing a tangle should he so much as flex them the wrong way.

He can’t hear Techno laugh at him, trailing behind, but he can see it in the reflection off the polished marble floor.

“As for your… party member,” the priest says, a description that wildly misunderstands what Techno’s actually doing here (officially a peacemaking gesture towards the Mad Old Ones, blah blah blah, truth be told it’s because Phil likes having his friend with him as moral support), “I believe Lord Hypixel has spoken for him.”

“Heh,” Techno says. “Lemme guess: front ‘n center stage before the guillotine comes down.”

Their rivalry is a friendly one, beginning with the time Techno all but took over a township from the larger kingdom singlehandedly, for no reason other than because he could. Every now and then, it’ll come with exciting little gifts like turning Hypixel’s biggest export into potatoes, or enrolling Techno in a gladiator’s tournament.

This one would be more of the latter. All he has to do is hold up the feather, but it’ll be in front of thousands of eyes, in honor of a god not technically his own.

Phil pats him on the arm and says, “You’ll do great.” 

A cleric approaches, carefully handing off the cushioned case containing the massive white feather to Techno before leading him away, and then it’s time.

Phil calls it a temple, but it’s honestly more of a cathedral. There’s wide halls, tall color-stained windows, a stage with a huge courtyard that’s already full to the brim with celebrators in varying levels of tipsiness, and everything’s been lit up with magical and physical lights in a dazzling display. 

Even within the stone brick walls, Phil can hear the whistle and boom of fireworks launching into the air outside, though what muffles those sounds is less the stone and more the countless ruffling feathers and tapping talons and clacking beaks that suffuse the rafters.

“You know what to do,” the lead priest says, and Phil inclines his head. 

High above the stage, there’s a specially elevated pedestal accessible either by wing or by a winding staircase hidden behind a lavishly embroidered curtain. It depicts the Matron’s ascension, with green and blue ripples around the pale rising figure, all vivid strokes against the pitch-black background.

Up here, mere steps away from the peak, he can nearly touch the writhing mass of a flock that are the crows. They’re still watching, of course. 

Always watching. 

And then—silence. The birds go still. 

Phil disregards the speeches down below. He already knows what they’ll talk about; thanks and forgiveness, olds and news, maybe a spare word for the outer realms that have no concept of such a transition… and the tinkling of a glass eye as it’s locked in place, the silent lifting of the pale feather as Techno places it on the table before stepping back.

His cue is coming soon, but his gaze is drawn inextricably to the open roof, the skylight peeled open like a crystal flower as the moon creeping ever closer to its peak. This is how the crows were welcomed in, probably.

Odd that there wouldn’t be more lights up there, though. The roof has been left completely unlit, against custom for the rest of the festival. 

Here on the inside, however, dancing lights squirm their way through the air, visible even through the heavy curtain. A voice rises above the noise, calling, “Wings of the Matron, highest paladin of the Queen of Death and Crows, now inters this year into her realm!”

With that, while carefully repressing an eyeroll at the dramatics, Phil finally pushes through the curtain and steps onto the pedestal proper. Moonlight slants down on him like a smile, and when he spreads his wings their adornments glitter and shine and evoke all kinds of oohs and aahs from the crowd below. 

There’s also movement, jarring enough to be alarming, but a quick glance reveals Techno in a rush towards the back. 

Figuring his friend is taking advantage of the moment to get out of the spotlight, Phil presses on. He draws a sword that isn’t Benihime, isn’t much more than pretty glass in the shape of a blade, opening his mouth to call his Matron’s hand down on the final second of the year—

A crow screams. 

Or, rather, something screams, and the crows blur into motion with screams of their own soon after, but Phil catches none of it because there’s Techno in front of him with a javelin sprouting from his chest and a darkness surging through the air as he staggers back, gasping for air that won’t come. 

“Techno!”

Phil’s wings spasm, snapping delicate mythril chains and desperately pulling both of them away from the teal-tipped claws reaching down from the open roof. The decorative cloth falls away as Phil grabs onto Techno, onto that ice-cold weapon sticking out his front. The glass sword shatters, dropped. Dark feathers splay wide, overshadowing the deep crimson that drips onto the platform.

Something grasps towards them, liquid shadow on stalks of mycelium and bone: a warden of the deep dark, descending from above, danger and corruption all but gushing off every inch of it.

Phil bares his teeth at it and snarls. Crows lurch angrily at the assaulter, uncaring of how quickly they shred on its claws. 

Techno, inexplicable and impossible in all the best of ways, groans and rips the javelin from himself in a single vicious move before throwing it aside to dissolve into skulk-matter on its own.

“If it wouldn’t literally cost me riches to swear right now,” he gasps out, and Phil could laugh. 

Instead, he says, “Tech, Techno, how did you—?”

“Haste,” Techno says. “Can we move, we need to move, there’s not enough space up here for three of us—”

There isn’t, and the warden thumps onto the platform right nearly on top of them with enough force to crack it, all heavy and hollow and thump-thumping with whatever beating core in its body drives it onward. 

Phil looks up. 

Nothing but darkness greets him; the lights have winked out. All of them. And the warden is charging up for a fatal swing, snatching crows from the air to stuff into its horrific ribcage. The birds cry out.

One, silver-eyed, tackles his head to make him look down.

He looks down. 

Far below, the feather glistens on the table, slowly darkening to pitch-black. Glass eyes glisten from where they’re embedded in the paneling around its border, and Phil‘s breath catches at the imagery it evokes. 

Techno’s trying to kick the warden away. He has no Orphan Obliterator with him, but a workable longsword with gold scrolling that Phil bets he lifted off Hypixel when he noticed something wrong.

Phil tugs at him and says, “Trust me?”

The grin Techno gives him is full of blood. “With the world,” he says.

And they fall.

i.

Ba-thump. 

A heartbeat—or a wingbeat—either way, louder than it should be. 

Ba-thump. 

(I see the player you mean.)

(Philza?)

(Yes. Take care. It—)

(Oh, come off it, now. They’re guests, not questers. He‘s heard this spiel a thousand times already.)

A deep, put-out sigh. (Spoilsport. We never get to say our piece anymore. Everyone just skips it.)

(Shh. He’s coming to. Mumza! He’s awake!)

Phil opens his eyes to stars and lights. Blue and green auroras, formless and shifting, buoy him through the void.

Inhale. Exhale.

“Hello, Life and World,” he says to the auroras. And then, raising his eyes to the smile above them, “Hi, Kristin.” 

Her name comes easily here, free to be spoken in the domain of all End. 

“Phil,” she returns, warm. She looks as she always has, in long, dark silks and faint, haloing light. “And Techno, it’s good to see you.” 

“You’re both very calm about this,” Techno observes, though he seems fairly calm himself. The wound he sustained from the warden is nowhere to be seen, and little red irises wink open and shut all around him. “Do you two regularly meet up in the End by fallin’ through what was by all accounts a totally normal table, or was I just not payin’ attention to the festival schedule?”

“Death is every change and transition,” says Kristin. She shrugs. “Getting here is easy. A whole year is special, but the past dies all the time.”

“The table helped, since it had all the right parts to be a portal,” Phil says. “The warden was a surprise.”

“Chat blabbered to me about it,” Techno says, gesturing to the eyes flickering in and out of view around his head. “They heard it thumpin’ around and were very excited by the thought of violence. Predictable. By the way, just existin’ here doesn’t count as dyin’, right? I do have a brand to maintain.”

“Oh, no,” Kristin reassures. “You would’ve been fine even if you crashed into a real table. I just thought you’d like a less… jarring stop.”

“Thank you,” Phil says, as she draws him into a hug. She smells like the bloom he’d given to her crow on the sea, and the faintest hint of ozone.

“How could I turn down a chance to see you face to face again?” she says, thumbing his cheek. “Even if it’s not in the best of circumstances. What’s a warden of the deep dark even doing at my Year’s End festival?”

Twin lights twirl together, humming and undulating. 

(Skulk hates death. It hates the cycle of dreaming and waking.)

(All it does is corrupt and get corrupted, over and over again.)

(The Ender King should’ve taken care of that leak eons ago.)

(That whiny old geezer couldn’t have taken care of a bucket of milk and love, never mind an infection like this.)

Kristin hushes both of them with a wave of the hand, saying, “That’s why I’m in charge of death now, isn’t it?”

The auroras purr to her like a pair of affectionate dragonlings, trails of light wrapping around her wrists. For all of their notoriety as wise and mysterious guardians, they seem happy just to love and be loved.

To Phil, then, she says, “So, my Wings—would you remind the undecaying that death hasn’t forgotten them?”

His wings twitch, splaying open. “I’d love to.”

“Then,” Kristin begins.

(Hold,) whispers the green World, (for just a moment. Before you wake.)

Blue twists, wreathing them. Life says, (Veins of the Blood God, hear us now.)

Techno pauses. Chat, flickering intermittently in and out, abruptly solidifies in a wave of focus, like the fanned eyes of a peacock tail. “I’m listenin’.”

(You carry madness and blood and the call of war, with Death’s one love as witness and confidant.)

(You are hunter and runner and chaser and knower, believing peace beyond what your blade may bring.)

(Your pact belongs to places beyond us, beyond Life and World and the universe known and unknown)

(but a god of blood is still a god of life, for whatever may bleed must live)

(and a god of life is still a god of love, for whatever may live must love)

(and so the universe speaks to you still, in every dream)

(and the universe loves you because you are love)

(don’t forget that, when you wake.)

The auroras swell, voices all but singing, and though the void stretches vast and endless around them, the lights sweep them up from beneath and ferry them upward, rising, rising.

Phil flaps, instinctively, and shoots up faster towards that spinning point of light above them. 

Kristin says, in echo of the universe, “I love you. Wake up.”

And from the table that served its purpose as a portal to the End, Phil and Techno erupt into the new year. The long shadows that chased them there fall away under feather and fury, the warden collapsing under the Matron’s thrumming presence.

“Not the worst party I’ve ever been to,” Techno allows, and Phil tips his head back to laugh.