Wildfire Phoenix by Zoe Chant
Chapter 34
The storm was dying.
The Thunderbird was dying too, but it still lifted its wings, gathering what power it could for one last attack. No matter that it was futile; no matter that it would drain the last of its strength.
Its ancient enemy reared above it, powerful and mocking. There was no choice but to strike.
“Zephyr!”
A figure. A small figure, a shadowy soul, barely noticeable. Compared to Uncegila, or the Thunderbird itself, she was no more than an ant. Yet she ran between them, unafraid, waving her arms.
“No, Zephyr!” she was shouting. “Don’t strike Uncegila!”
The Thunderbird hesitated. A storm did not know doubt, yet something—some tiny, foreign speck—made it hold back the lightning gathering in its wings.
This small, scurrying creature should have meant nothing to it. But she did. The echo of her name filled the silence at the heart of the storm.
Blaise.
It knew her. Remembered her, in shattered shards of memory, bright and sharp.
Her hand on his chest, pulling him out of the dark.
Her face through the campfire, veiled by sparks.
The gleam of sweat over the line of her collarbones.
Her biceps flexing, over and over, cutting fire line with swift, practiced strokes.
Colored lights reflecting in her eyes; her agile fingers, dancing across controls.
The flash of her smile, brighter than lightning.
The heat of her touch.
Black wings.
Fire.
Blaise.
Uncegila hissed, hood flaring, but Blaise didn’t so much as glance at the horned serpent towering over her. She looked up at the Thunderbird, and there was nothing in her face but utter certainty.
“Not Uncegila,” she said. Her eyes caught the Thunderbird’s electric light, reflecting it back. “Me.”
Lightning did not pick its path. A storm did not choose where to strike.
But he was more than a storm.
He was her mate.
“All it takes is a spark,” Blaise whispered, opening her arms to him. “Make me burn, Zephyr.”
He unleashed the lightning.
Blaise disappeared, lost in that white-hot power. He poured himself into her, all of his strength and hope and love, holding nothing back.
From the flames, the Phoenix rose.
Black no longer; or at least, not only black. The base of each shining feather was still midnight mystery, dark as night… but as her wings spread, her pinions kindled into flame. First the dull red of banked embers; then hotter, shifting to the fierce, leaping orange of a bonfire.
And the fire didn’t stop there. Her flames licked higher, blazing gold, then yellow. She burned now with the furious force of wildfire, with all the power of nature. And still her feathers brightened—through yellow to brilliant, eye-searing white.
And then, with a thunderclap of superheated air, the flames shifted to spectral blue-violet, so hot that their light reached beyond the limits of mortal sight. She burned like the heart of a star; the pure, transcendent soul of fire.
In the face of that light, Uncegila was nothing more than a frail, thin shadow. The horned serpent recoiled in fear, shrinking away from that incandescent shape.
It wasn’t even a fight. Uncegila’s eyes might be the death of suns, but the Phoenix’s held the birth of galaxies. Taking flight, she swooped around the cowering serpent, caging her in violet fire.
Uncegila twisted, but there was no escape. This was sacred fire, born from lightning, and even the great serpent could not withstand its touch.
It was quick, and merciful. With one last, bitter shriek, the horned serpent crumbled to ash.
Ash… and something more.
As the wind scattered Uncegila’s remains, glowing motes rose into the air, freed from the serpent’s crumbling corpse. They swarmed like fireflies, dancing in the air.
Blaise hovered in the air, her beak opening to release a soft, wistful call; part welcome, part sorrow. The sparks swirled in front of her, brightening. They came together, coalescing into a shimmering, fiery shape.
Just for a moment, the spirit of the old Phoenix spread its wings over its daughter in blessing.
Then the luminous form broke apart, the glowing fragments scattering. Some soared up, arcing over the horizon; others zig-zagged through the trees, like dogs following a scent. Only one remained, dancing across the shattered meadow as though hunting for something.
“Absolutely not,” Rose exclaimed, as that sparkling mote circled her head like a butterfly looking for somewhere to land. With a flip of her hand, she shooed it away. “Once was quite enough. I’m happy the way I am, thank you very much. Off you go. Get back to where you belong.”
The spark hesitated, bobbing a little in the air, then streaked for Ash. Hugh jerked back as the brilliant ember settled over Ash’s heart. It settled down, sinking in, and for an instant a fiery glow outlined Ash’s body.
Ash’s chest rose. He drew in a deep, calm breath, and opened his eyes.
“Oh,” he said, looking up at the blue-violet flames of the hovering Phoenix. He smiled, pure joy lighting his face. “Oh, yes.”
The Phoenix touched down, her feathers fading back down the spectrum until the flames burned low and orange. With a final flare, they went out entirely.
“Dad!”
Blaise ran to embrace him. He hugged her back, eyes shining. Rose enfolded them both in her arms, laughing and crying. And then the others were there too, all of them, gathering together in relief and joy.
The Thunderbird watched the hugs and tears. A breeze tugged at its feathers. Its work here was done. Other skies called to it now, promising peace at last; gentle winds, and the deep, quiet dreams of the world.
Blaise broke away from the laughing, embracing mob. She looked up at the Thunderbird. Her eyes held their own light now, brighter than lightning.
“Zephyr,” was all she said.
Storm winds faded away. Not forever; not gone entirely. A storm never truly died. The clouds may scatter, but the wind always rose again, eventually. When it called, he would answer.
And he would always return.
“Blaise.” He took her in his arms, the mate bond filling his heart with fire. “My Phoenix. My mate.”
