Phoenix Page raced down the ancient steps, bare feet pounding against concrete as he hurtled past old vending machines and derelict apartment buildings, icy wind biting his face and whipping through his tangle of red hair. He hadn’t even spent an hour in the Middle Ring of Veracity, yet already Phoenix had concluded that everything in the miserable dump of metropolis was as bleak and grey as the threadbare prison uniform he was wearing. Had he stopped to check though, Phoenix would have realised that his grey prison clothes were not as grey as he would have liked, a deep, damp crimson spreading across the fabric at alarming speed.

Early morning sun crept over the mighty wall that encircled the mountain’s peak behind him as he chased his long, distorted shadow further and further down the concrete slope, praying to gods he didn’t believe in that the adrenalin would keep him moving until he found a place to hide. At least the energy surge he had created moments earlier had fried the power network of the entire city and frazzled communication with all the surveillance drones that roamed the dreary streets.

If only the effort of such an impressive feat hadn’t damn-near killed him.

He skidded around a corner at the base of the stairs, tripped over a pile of empty bottles and cans, stumbled onwards through a maze of dank alleyways, then staggered to a stop before a towering residential building, at least thirty floors high, the bricks stained with decades of grime.

Phoenix leant against a dead tree at the front of the building, his hand pressed against the wound under his shirt. His forearm was also bleeding, but that was of less concern so he ignored it. Dizzy with fatigue, he watched people shuffle about their day, draping wet washing from windows, complaining to neighbours about the power outage, or trudging off to work dangerous, poorly paid jobs.

No one spared him a second glance. Clearly, assisting a bleeding, shaggy-haired nineteen-year-old dressed in grey rags was not worth the risk.

Phoenix couldn’t blame them. You didn’t survive in Veracity by sticking your neck out for other people.

Which is why he was surprised to see a girl of roughly seventeen striding towards him, hands buried in the pockets of her faded denim jacket, the buckles of her boots glinting in the sun. She stopped a safe distance away and folded her arms.

“You’re having a bad day,” she said by way of greeting.

Phoenix glanced at the blood seeping through his shirt then smiled back at her. “Nice of you to notice.”

The girl pushed her short hair to the side. It was warm brunette, a shade lighter than her skin, and it fell with a refined elegance that Phoenix’s curly tangle of red could never hope to compete with.

She eyed the crimson bloodstain like a seasoned sailor eyeing the sea. “Stabbed?”

“Shot,” Phoenix replied. “Barely.”

“Barely?”

“The bullet grazed my side.” Phoenix offered another smile. “I’ve lived through worse. I don’t suppose you have a first aid kit though? Or even just somewhere I could nap?” He grimaced as a wave of nausea swept over him. “I’m not picky. I’ll sleep anywhere. I once slept through an entire armed robbery in a tavern full of drunk ogres and mountain trolls. Mountain trolls are loud, by the way. They win arguments based on volume alone.”

The stranger considered him in silence for a moment then slipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll call the hospital.”

“No!” Phoenix lunged for the slim, handheld device and it clattered across the pavement as he swayed on his feet. Stepping away from the tree had been a mistake.

The girl swung a knife at him so quickly he didn’t even see where she’d drawn it from.

“Sorry.” He backed up until he was pressed against the dead tree trunk.

“Touch me again and I’ll make your day so much worse.” The girl didn’t lower her blade.

“Understood.”

They sized each other up a while longer before the girl seemed to decide that a haemorrhaging idiot wasn’t much of a threat. She tucked her knife into the sheath at her side then glanced at her discarded phone.

Phoenix swallowed. “If you call that hospital, you might as well sentence me to death.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

Phoenix shook his head. “They’ll find me. I can’t go back. Please.” He sank down the tree, his weary legs folding beneath him. “I can’t…”

“You’re losing blood,” the girl said.

Phoenix closed his eyes. “Blood? Who needs it? I’m fine. I’ll just… sit here for a bit…”

The girl clicked her tongue. “I’ve watched too many people die.” She retrieved the little communication device and frowned at the screen. “The network is down.”

“Still?” Phoenix said with a nervous laugh. “I caused quite a fuss, didn’t I?”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Who shot you?”

“Nobody friendly.”

“Was it Flamegate?”

Phoenix shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

“I thought so,” the girl said. “Your rebel tattoo needs adjusting, by the way.” She pointed at the five black dots inked over Phoenix’s collarbone, arranged like the five on six-sided dice. “Flamegate owns everything and everyone on Earth. You really think anybody stands a chance against that?”

“Yes, actually,” Phoenix mumbled, pulling his shirt higher to hide the mark. “But this tattoo isn’t what you think.” Distant sirens pierced through the background buzz of city life—a pack of hungry wolves closing in on wounded prey. Phoenix pushed himself to his feet. “Sorry to bother you. I’ll go.”

“You need somewhere to hide, right?”

Phoenix paused. “Well… if you’re offering,” he said, one hand fighting to keep blood inside his body, the other supporting his weight against the tree. “I’d hate to seem desperate.”

The girl chewed her lip for a second then nodded at the building behind her. “Follow me.” She walked off without waiting.

Phoenix clutched his side, trying not to collapse as he followed her into the dark foyer.

“The elevators aren’t working,” the girl said, passing the sealed metal doors and heading for the stairs.

Although grateful he didn’t have to endure the confined space of an elevator, Phoenix slowed at the foot of the stairwell. “You’re not at the very top, are you?”

“Fifteenth,” the girl replied, already a flight ahead.

Phoenix nodded. “I can make that.”

He couldn’t.

He reached the third floor and slumped against the wall.

The girl cast him a wary look. “You don’t have the plague, do you?”

Phoenix laughed, then stopped because it was excruciating. “If I had the plague, I wouldn’t be able to talk. Or move, for that matter. Which would be… inconvenient… since I intend to save the world from its fast-approaching collapse.” He hesitated. “Tricky business though, world saving. Especially when the worlds have a habit… of changing on you.” He tipped his head back against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. “Realistically speaking, the whole universe is a lost cause. But where’s the fun in being realistic?”

“You sure use a lot of words to answer simple questions,” the girl said, hitching his good arm over her shoulder. “Come on.”

“If I don’t make it,” Phoenix began, but the girl didn’t let him finish.

“You’ll make it.”

They took the next few flights in silence, Phoenix concentrating on his breathing, trying to ignore the strange glances the girl kept giving him as they climbed step by careful step towards the fifteenth floor.

“Your eyes…” the girl said, squinting at Phoenix’s face.

Phoenix cringed. “I’m aware the gold flecks make people uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t notice outside,” the girl said. “They’re…”

“Glowing,” Phoenix finished. “I know.”

“They’re pretty creepy.”

“A more mawkish individual might describe them as ancient galaxies glimmering in the far reaches of space.”

“I’m rarely mawkish.”

“I’m starting to sense that.”

“I wouldn’t call them galaxies,” the girl added, as they neared her floor. “More like sad fireflies at the end of a long night.”

Phoenix gave a weak laugh. “You caught me at a bad time.”

“I’d noticed.”

They stepped out into a narrow corridor lined with old-fashioned wall-lamps and fake timber flooring. The lamps flickered into life as they approached.

“Power’s back,” the girl noted, before stopping at an ugly metal door. She tapped a card over a sensor and the door swung open with a click. Phoenix staggered inside then stretched out on the carpet beside an old couch. The girl edged to the window behind him and peeked through the blinds.

“Flamegate’s on the move,” she remarked, as Phoenix studied the curious black scorch marks that stained the stranger’s otherwise beige ceiling. “They’ve got trucks and tanks and everything patrolling the streets. All the billboards are flashing red.”

Phoenix responded with a drowsy nod. “I’d expect nothing less. They’ll want to make a big show of it. Sirens, soldiers, those swanky podcars with flashing lights… I should be flattered.” He rolled onto his side. “I like your place. Nice carpet. If I die, at least I die on nice carpet… I always thought I’d go on cement. Did a fire burn through here? What happened to the ceiling?”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m awake.” Phoenix closed his eyes. “Phoenix, by the way. Phoenix Page.”

“Belinda Loft,” his rescuer muttered. “My friends call me Bee.”

Phoenix smiled. “Thank you, Bee.”

“They’re imposing a city-wide lockdown.”

“Are you suggesting,” Phoenix said, “that my cowering behind the safety of your couch is in some way connected to the biggest manhunt this city has ever seen?”

“Am I wrong?” Belinda asked.

Phoenix kept his eyes shut. “The twisted maniacs at the research facility just lost a beloved pet.”

He heard the frown in Belinda’s voice. “Research facility?”

“Inside Flamegate Tower,” Phoenix said, pointing half-heartedly towards the window, beyond which stood the colossal mountain that the expansive city of Veracity was built upon. “Big stone building at the top of the summit. Electrified wire along all the walls. Guards with guns at every corner… I escaped this morning, and now here I am, bleeding all over your floor.”

Belinda crouched beside him with a bundle of bandages and a bottle of spirits. “You were a prisoner inside Flamegate Tower itself?”

“Yeah.” Phoenix winced as she pulled back the sodden fabric of his shirt. “Since I was five.”

Belinda raised her eyebrows, no doubt surprised by the array of older scars crisscrossing Phoenix’s body.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said. “You really have lived through worse.”

“I can’t go back,” Phoenix mumbled, a dense fog enveloping his brain. “Please…” His hand slipped from his side and fell to the floor.

“Don’t worry,” Belinda said, unscrewing the spirits bottle. “An enemy of Flamegate is a friend of mine.”

“If I die here, I’ll die in both worlds.”

Belinda paused. “Both worlds?”

“Earth is your world,” Phoenix said. “But Yonder… Yonder is mine.” He gasped as she poured the clear, potent-smelling liquid over his side. “I’ve got family, you know,” he said through clenched teeth. “Back there… in my world. The world where I started… It’s better than this place.”

Bee chuckled. “Most places are.”

“There’s never enough time,” Phoenix murmured, before the darkness closed in and he left Earth behind.

~

Phoenix woke on his back to the comforting sound of violin music, stretched out under a lonely tree in a lush, gloriously green field. Sun glinted through the leaves above him, warming his face as a soft breeze whispered conspiracy theories through the tall grass.

He blinked in the sudden glare then grinned at a surly, heavily tattooed young man sitting against the tree, staring at nothing as he played a gentle tune upon a battered old fiddle. He was older than Phoenix, already twenty-five, but his dark eyes and intense demeanour made him seem even older than his years. Enhancing his menacing appearance was his long black hair and bulky frame, which gave the unnerving impression of a pirate mixed with a bear.

“The ever-vigilant Simon Wolfe,” Phoenix said as he sat up. “Good afternoon. Is it afternoon? It feels like it is.”

The man frowned at him, cutting the melody short.

“Light help us,” Phoenix said. “How long have I been gone? You’re starting to get a beard.”

Simon rubbed his bristly chin, his eyes creased in concern. “You’ve been out for three days.”

“It felt longer,” Phoenix said, bundling his hideous, multihued overcoat tighter around his shoulders. It was patched in so many places it was hard to tell which was original fabric and which had been stitched over the top.

“What happened?” Simon asked.

Phoenix shrugged and took Simon’s fiddle. “I’ve been busy,” he said, plucking absently at the strings. “Escaping prison… stopping Flamegate from permanently destroying the balance of the worlds…”

Simon’s jaw dropped. “You escaped?”

“Well, more delayed than stopped, really,” Phoenix said, strangling the poor instrument in his attempt to pluck a tune. “They’ve lost me, at least. And I stole their only void-stone. That should annoy—”

“Phoenix,” Simon interrupted. “You escaped?”

Phoenix lowered the fiddle. “Yeah. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“You’re free?”

“As a bird.”

“But?”

“But,” Phoenix said, handing Simon his instrument again, “they shot me. And I think I’m dying.”

Simon closed his eyes.

“Relax.” Phoenix leant against the tree, taking a moment to appreciate that this body, at least, wasn’t leaking copious amounts of blood. “If I drop dead without warning, convey my condolences to the grieving masses, and apologise on my behalf to all the people I’ve been meaning to apologise to.” He folded his arms, watching the wind ripple over the surrounding hills of long grass. “And while we’re on this morbid topic… thanks for saving my skin more times than I care to count. Life wouldn’t have been the same without you.” Phoenix smiled and elbowed his friend in the ribs. “I suspect it would’ve been significantly shorter, and not nearly as appealing.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Can I keep your trumpet then?”

Phoenix laughed. “Fine. Rob me of my belongings. They’re no use to a corpse.”

“Great,” Simon said. “Thanks.”

Phoenix gazed at the sky, silent as a breeze rustled the leaves and tugged his ginger hair. For a moment, he was completely distracted by the flight of clouds overhead.

“Red,” Simon said. “You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah…” Phoenix tapped his fingers with all the composure of an over-caffeinated squirrel.

“You survive that Light Festival every year,” Simon added. “A little puncture wound isn’t going to slow you down.”

Phoenix grimaced. “Hmm…”

“Well, I know you didn’t completely survive last year…” Simon continued, with the air of someone trying to take back hurtful remarks, “but temporarily dead is definitely better than permanently dead, and if you can bounce back from something like that, I’m sure you can pull through whatever is happening to you now.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Phoenix said, then sprang abruptly to his feet. “At least I’m not bleeding profusely on anyone’s carpet here.”

“Are you with someone you can trust?” Simon asked, standing as well. He was even more intimidating at full height, easily dwarfing Phoenix, whose head didn’t come close to the shoulder of his enormous friend.

Phoenix thought of Bee, standing over him with her steady, calculating eyes and her knife.

“I hope so,” he said, dusting dirt from his ugly coat. Simon often complained that the tatty, rainbow garment made Phoenix look like a child playing make-believe, as it hung past the ground and had sleeves far too long since it had been tailored for a much taller man.

Phoenix was content, however, to ignore the fashion advice of a hairy, magically impaired warlock whose attire mimicked that of a gothic motorbike gang, complete with buckles, intricate chains, and two full sleeves of elaborate tattoos that extended all the way to the knuckles on his hands.

“What about that stolen void-stone?” the warlock asked, returning his fiddle to its case.

“Destroyed it,” Phoenix replied. “As promised.”

Simon’s thick eyebrows knitted together, the doubt evident upon his often-unreadable face.

Phoenix heaved a sigh. “Relax. I’m spontaneous, not suicidal. Flamegate won’t use that stone, and neither will I.”

Simon shook his head, unconvinced, as a gust of wind swept over the hills, bringing with it the faint smells of a faraway farm.

“New plan.” Phoenix clapped his hands together. “Make your own way to Karvil.”

“Why?” Simon asked, tightening the clasps of his jacket. “I thought you wanted to speak with the inventors. We’re only a day’s ride from the city.”

Usually the thought of visiting the quirky band of inventors living in the capital of Yonder would bring Phoenix great joy, but today, he had more pressing concerns.

“You go,” he said, while Simon began collecting their luggage from under the tree. “I think I’ll go home.”

Simon dropped the satchel he had meant to swing over his shoulder. “What?” He narrowed his dark eyes. “To Bloodwood?”

“It’s been ten years,” Phoenix said, waving vaguely at the distant hills towards the infamous town where he’d been born. “I should let my so-called family know I’m alive. I wonder if Nan still bakes that bread I like.”

He strolled away from the tree, uncomfortable that it was the only tree amongst the eerily forsaken slopes. Although the grasslands seemed harmless during the day, savage monsters emerged from beneath the ground at night. Monsters, he was sure, that he had conveniently slept through while Simon was left to guard Phoenix’s unconscious body.

“You won’t make it,” Simon said.

“Huh?” Phoenix looked back, preoccupied with thoughts of claws, spines and teeth.

“Alone,” Simon said. “You’ll need help.”

“My old life…” Phoenix paused, preferring not to be bogged down in resentment or guilt. “Bloodwood has a dark past. Warlocks with zero respect for privacy don’t need to see it.” He put two fingers to his mouth and released a loud whistle. In answer to his call, a dark, shaggy mountain-horse came cantering over the nearest hill, skipping to a stop perilously close to Phoenix’s feet before exhaling a belligerent snort.

Phoenix scratched the gloomy-eyed animal behind the ear. “Hello Gulliver.”

“You’re serious?” Simon said, passing Phoenix his single, raggedy rucksack in which he stored all his worldly things. “If you die, nice knowing you? If not, see you later in Karvil?”

Phoenix swung the tattered bag over his shoulder and gave a dry laugh. “Essentially, yes. I’ll meet you at the Inventors’ Guild.” He climbed lithely onto the horse’s back, no reins and saddle-free, then tensed and rubbed his side. The pain from Earth was troubling him here too – an ominous sign. “I won’t stay in Bloodwood long.” He turned Gulliver toward the horizon, the swaying grass continuing as far as the eye could see.

“How long should I wait before collecting your trumpet?” Simon asked. “Is an hour a respectable-enough mourning period?”

“Funny,” Phoenix said. Then he toppled from the horse. Gulliver bolted forward before cautiously circling back to check his rider.

The burly young warlock crouched beside Phoenix, listening for his breath.

“Alive,” he muttered. “Barely.” He looked up at the horse. “He might be dying.”

Gulliver flattened his white-tipped ears. “Well…” he said, projecting his dull, monotonous voice directly into Simon’s head, “I’m not exactly surprised.”