This was a request. If it's not what you were imagining, feel free to put in another!! Request form is in my bio <3

The job was clean. For once.

The Duke had died with a strangled gurgle and a bloodied jaw, collapsed across his silk-covered desk like a discarded marionette. Techno had made it quick, efficient. Too many times the man had tried to buy time, tried to weasel his way back into the Emperor’s favour Gold couldn't cleanse treason — or stupidity.

Philza drifted through the halls, eyes narrowed in the flickering torchlight. His cloak whispered against the walls as he checked the last wing. Empty bedchambers, shuttered sitting rooms. No noise. No life.

Just the cold silence of a house turned mausoleum.

He swept through another door. Modest quarters — plain furniture, coarse sheets, a hearth long dead. No movement, no flicker of magic. He turned to leave.

Then paused.

A gleam. A glint of brass or polished eyelet, catching the light in a cracked armoire just barely ajar.

Phil crossed the room in two strides and yanked the door open, already reaching.

He dragged the figure out hard, slamming them against the floorboards. Blade drawn, pressing cold steel under their jaw.

It was a boy. A servant. Dusty uniform, wide eyes, hair sticking to his forehead. Phil's breath left him in a silent curse. He hadn’t expected anyone left.

The kid scrambled, trying to speak. Phil shoved a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet,” he muttered, low and cold as Techno came in.

“You find something?” Techno’s voice was dry, half amused.

Phil shifted his grip, pinning the boy’s arms. “Thought we were clear.”

“We were.” Heavy steps approached. “Guess the rat’s got claws.”

The servant kicked out, wild and panicked. Phil held him tighter, almost impressed. The boy hissed through his teeth and twisted again — like it’d do anything.

Techno crouched down, tilting his head as he studied the kid. His crimson eyes glittered in the dark.

“Feisty,” he murmured.

Phil said nothing.

Then Techno reached out and grabbed the boy’s chin, rough and deliberate. Turned his face side to side like inspecting a cut of meat. The boy froze, breath trembling in his chest.

Techno’s grin was slow. “He’s got a pretty face on him.”

Phil’s brow quirked. “Mm.” He didn’t disagree.

Techno didn’t release him right away — just watched him, eyes flicking over every line, every tremble, every wild little flicker of defiance. Then he let go, almost casually.

“Bring him.”

Phil blinked. “Bring?”

“Yeah. Tie him up. Take him with us.”

The boy jolted, struggling anew, but Phil had already reached for his cords. “He saw our faces,” he said flatly, cinching a knot.

Techno shrugged. “We could’ve killed him.”

“We still could.”

“But we won’t.”

Phil tightened the bindings, watching the servant squirm. “Because he’s got a pretty face?”

Techno gave a low chuckle, straightening. “Because I’m curious.”

“Mm. That always ends well.”

“You’re the one who kept that bard alive in Red Hallow.” Techno reminded him, voice laced with amusement.

“Because he had maps,” Phil snapped back. “And poison. And a good singing voice.”

The servant tried to twist from his grasp again, drawing a quiet, annoyed sigh from Phil.

“Still fighting,” Techno mused, watching the boy writhe. “Gotta respect the spirit.”

Phil’s gaze slid down to the kid in his grip — lips bloodied where he’d bit down too hard, wrists straining, legs kicking weakly.

“Reminds me of a younger you,” Techno added.

Phil snorted. “I wasn’t this stupid.”

“You were worse.”

That earned him a quiet grin. Techno rarely joked. Phil rarely laughed. But they knew each other down to the bone, and this — this brutal little dance — was routine.

Phil finished binding the boy’s ankles and stood. The kid lay there panting, glaring up at both of them with fire still in his eyes.

“He bent, hauled the boy over one shoulder like a sack of grain. Ignored the muffled curses and weak fists against his back.

“You break his nose,” Techno called behind him, “I’m not healing it.”

“Then stop making me carry the pretty ones.”