No need for sunlight when red flame glowed over all.

Across Lowtown, swaths of row houses and terraced apartments and ramshackle nest houses were engulfed in the fire. Timbers groaned and collapsed, sending up showers of sparks. Windows exploded outward, vomiting out plumes of black smoke into the screaming crowds that filled the alleys.

The rim of the Cauldron, those high mountain walls that sheltered the city from ocean storms, now served to trap the smoke over Lowtown. A low black fog climbed up the Midcity cliffs, roiling and angry with the red light of all those fires.

Burning thatch, burning wood, and burning feathers stung at Eolh’s nares. A sharp smell, too awful to dwell on. Ash fell from the sky, as soft as fog, pattering his beak, his arms, and everything in sight.

It was damned hard to find a street the imperials had not already ransacked. Patrols of them were lighting buildings on fire or kicking in doors and pulling people out of their houses. Those who fought back were shot, their bodies left in the streets or dropped into the gutters.

Eolh crept over the rooftops, jumping from one to another, using his hook to catch himself. The mad thunder of gunfire rose up from the streets. And the screams. Somewhere up high, a temple bell clanged and called for aid that would never come.

Throngs of avians and redenites and all the other Cauldron denizens ran through the streets below, joining with the crowds making their exodus along the vium. Some hobbled or limped, others dragged carts down the wide avenue as they headed toward the cleft in the cliff walls. Desperate to leave the city.

Two imperial Fangs hovered above the vium, their twin fuselages wreathed in smoke. They served as sentinels and threats both. Leave now, or you won’t leave at all . . .

Where would they go?

The Wash and the farmlands were bought and paid for by the upper castes. And the Lower Wash was no safe haven: a barren stretch of sand before a violent sea.

No, all those masses would head into the jungle and find some road to the outlying villages or cities across the archipelago.

Most of them would die on the way.

But Eolh would not join them.

Three alleys intersected together, stopping at a wedge-shaped building. A half step led down to a basement door shaded by a tattered awning. It was a small, unassuming door in a cluttered alley, and if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t find it.

Horace’s hideout.

Eolh was here to try one last thing. If he could find the old Blackfeather boss, if he could make him understand that Eolh had to follow the human, maybe Horace would forgive him for running.

Maybe.

What else could he do?

Ash blanketed the streets, the balconies and roofs. At the far end of the alley, two avians argued over a cart half loaded with goods. But they were far off, and Eolh couldn’t even pick out their voices.

The gray clumps drifting down from the sky. Once you got used to the smell, it was almost peaceful.

Eolh hopped down from the roof, not bothering to land quietly. Nobody was here. Just trash and broken glass and a pile of forgotten rags wedged against that basement door.

No, wait. There were feathers sticking out of the rags.

Underneath all those old, tattered fabrics was the crumpled body of a fledgling. A little corvani child, lying with his head against the door pressed unnaturally close to his small, frail chest. Just a fledgling.

Eolh double-checked and triple-checked his surroundings, searching for any hint of a trap. Far down the alley, the two avians were squawking at each other, but they hadn’t even seen Eolh.

“Hey,” Eolh whispered.

No answer.

He tried again, louder. “You all right?”

A choking rasp. The fledgling struggled to lift a wing. Something dark dripped off his beak and dribbled on the step. The fledgling struggled to lift his head and made a pathetic, cooing cough. His eyes fluttered open only to roll up to the sky.

Eolh rushed to him. He cupped the back of the fledgling’s head, trying to help him breathe. The young corvani coughed again, spraying Eolh with flecks of blood as he struggled to speak. He was shaking his head, and one small hand was trying to push Eolh away.

“ . . . don’t have anything . . .”

“No, it’s OK,” Eolh said. “Just breathe. Look at me and breathe. I’ve got something for you.”

Eolh’s heart was pounding as he rummaged through his pockets, desperately trying to pull something out with his hook. He’s just a boy. How can they do this to him? He’s so small. Eolh’s hook caught on a leather strap, and nanite tubes spilled down the step. He grabbed one with his good hand and tore open the corvani’s shirt. The threads ripped far too easily.

A knife stuck out of the child’s chest. It had broken the ribs and pierced through a lung.

Eolh stabbed the syringe into the fledgling’s chest, as close to the wound as he could. He scrabbled for another tube and stabbed that one in too. “Stay with me. Breathe.”

And another. “Stay with me, gods damn you!”

And another.

Until the fledgling’s chest stopped moving. Until he stopped coughing, and his arms had gone limp. His black eyes rolled once more and fixed across the street. Looking at something that wasn’t there.

“No.” Eolh cradled that fragile body against his. “Gods, please. Please.”

He did not know how long he knelt there, holding him, rocking him back and forth. Unable to let go.

Eolh did not hear the talons scraping up the cobbled street behind him.

But the voice. Oh, yes. He heard the voice.

“Well, well. Look who it might be.” A gray-feathered avian strutted up behind Eolh. Dozens of scars, new and old, broke up the flat, stone gray of his plumage. Two beady eyes that could only belong to one avian: Harta, one of Horace’s bloodwings. This avian always walked with a sniveling swagger that Eolh couldn’t abide.

Another avian, a huge brute with a gaudy red stripe running down his spine, muscled up next to Harta. Eolh didn’t know this one.

“Look here, Jacksy,” Harta said. “If it isn’t the last person I ever expected to come limping back.”

“Why,” Jacksy said, “it’s the runner.”

Jacksy’s gruff voice poured like rotten ale into Eolh’s ears. His beak was shaped like a bludgeon, as if he had been born to crack skulls.

Eolh did not like the way the two of them were staring at him. Circling him.

“Seems we got a back-flapper in our clutches,” Harta said, walking to Eolh’s left. “Of course, now we’re back-flappers too, aren’t we, Jacksy?”

Jacksy giggled like a giddy child.

Eolh let go of the fledgling’s body and stood. Silver liquid dripped through his fingers, covering his feathers with a shining chrome. They had cornered him already. How could I be so stupid?

Stay cool. Just keep them talking.

“Where’s Horace?” Eolh asked.

Harta said, “That’s what I’m saying, isn’t it? Or have you forgotten how to listen, Eolh? The old boss was getting a bit slow. A bit too trusting with your type. So we’ve done ourselves a good old-fashioned mutiny.”

“Got some coin out of it too,” Jacksy said. “Coin for the boss’s feathers.”

This banter was nothing more than an act, a trick of the streets. They were pulling his attention back and forth. When one spoke, the other took a step forward.

“Cyrans always pay good, don’t they?” Harta said.

“Back off,” Eolh growled. “Both of you.”

He reached for his knife. It wasn’t there. When had he lost it?

Eolh’s blood turned to ice. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

“Jacksy?” Harta said as casually as if he were shopping at the bazaar. “What do you suppose they’d pay for his feathers?”

“Don’t know. He’s missing a hand, though. They might shave some off the price.”

“Nah, you think? They only care about what’s inside his head, don’t they? Tell us, Eolh, did you happen to get a good look at the prize, then? Tell us, does he look like all them statues with them big muscles and—”

Before Harta finished the question, Jacksy lunged at Eolh.

But Eolh was ready. He stepped back, and the brute was so eager that Jacksy didn’t see the fledgling’s body lying there. He tripped.

Eolh swung for Jacksy’s face. His hook sank right into the brute’s eye, plunging through soft tissue and scraping against bone. The huge thug shrieked and flapped and flailed backward, tugging Eolh with him. The air exploded with feathers.

Eolh yanked on his hook, trying to pull it out. A sharp pain dug into Eolh’s back, right next to his spine. He flinched with a shriek and felt the blade slide back out of his flesh.

Harta crowed triumphantly, that long knife of his wet with Eolh’s blood.

Eolh stumbled and almost fell. He reached to his back, touching the wound with his good fingers. Spreading the excess nanite and pushing it into his wound with a wincing gasp. Already, the wound felt cold and fizzed with numbness as the nanite went to work.

“Come on, runner!” Harta taunted him, his voice frantic with the thrill of a fight gone bloody. He had to shout over Jacksy’s screams. “Come and get it!”

No time to let the nanite work.

Eolh feinted forward as if he were about to lunge at Harta. And then, while Harta was still swiping at the empty air, Eolh thrust his wings down and jumped into the air. And kept flying.

Harta followed with a frustrated squawk. He was younger and faster, and he tried to grab at Eolh’s tail feathers.

Eolh thrust his wings, throwing himself above the roofs toward the black clouds of smoke. More shouts rang out from the streets below—imperial soldiers sending up the alarm—but Eolh did not look down. He knew the younger avian would gain on him.

A bullet whipped past him, followed a breath later by the crack of the gun. Another bullet made a stinging zip in the air next to Eolh’s head, and he felt a fresh bite on his leg.

Eolh plummeted. He turned his body into a falling spear and dove back into the clouds, crashing to a rooftop and rolling with the fall.

Harta was nowhere in sight.

Eolh gasped for breath, searching the clouds.

A flash of metal caught his eye. Eolh turned just in time to see Harta hurtling toward him, screaming, with his knife outstretched.

But it was the shape behind Harta that made Eolh’s eyes go wide.

An imperial Fang, its twin tips aiming at the two of them.

Eolh threw his arms back as hard as he could. He tumbled off the roof just as a torrent of light erupted from the Fang and enveloped Harta. The light was an instant flash, there and then gone. It sliced through the roof and stone walls as if they were made of water. The building cracked open.

And though the light had not touched Eolh, a large patch of feathers on his back was burned to a crisp.

Eolh caught himself before he fell to the streets. He darted around the corners of the city, pushing himself faster than he thought possible. He could feel the Fang tracking his movements as it prepared to fire again.

The city dropped away, and below him was the vium filled with fleeing people.

Another light. Another excruciating blast of heat. But this time it sliced the vium, turning the stone into a molten-red slag.

The screams . . .

Eolh felt a sickness rise in the back of his throat. How many more will die because of me? Because he couldn’t stop running.

He couldn’t make himself stop. Eolh dove behind a bell tower, dipping into one alley and swerving into the next. Another flash of light illuminated the cityscape, rippling under the thick, black clouds. The middle of the tower disappeared and was replaced by a glowing red circle of stonework. Then the bricks began to crack and fall, and the bell let out a strangled clang as it smashed into a row house, collapsing that too. Chunks of stone exploded across the streets. Stone splinters stabbed into his back, and the sudden pain made him writhe and stumble to a stop.

He did not know where he was going. Or why he was still in the city at all. Everything was only going to get worse. He had to get out. He had to hide.

And if he never came back, so much the better. The world wouldn’t miss him, anyway.

Eolh took wing once more. He flew, staying under the awnings and wooden bridges and balconies engulfed in flames, keeping himself hidden from the skies.

At last, he found what he was looking for: a rusted sewer grate. He dropped onto the grate, ripped it open, and flung himself down into the only place where someone as useless as him was fit to die.