By Hailey Huntington They called me the Guardian of the Last Phoenix. In truth, I was the caretaker of the last phoenix, meaning that I basically just cleaned up after Ignis’s messes. But I loved the magical old bird, even if she had a nasty temper. Looking after phoenixes was in my blood. I think
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The troops whispered the name amongst themselves: the legend, the lore.
The Phoenix.
A creature of orange, red, and yellow plumage, the bird on fire, the power that never died.
They said that it moved from one world to the next. Once the power enshrouded in its earthly vessel had evaporated in one
Verdant rivers of life rushed from the mountaintop beneath Sayara, flowing around her. The currents carried her mind deeper until she touched a faint presence—a spark fighting for its life.
The familiar clicking of wood on stone disrupted her focus. She searched for the presence again—but nothing. What was it doing inside the mountain?
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An electric pulse jerks my muscles awake. I gasp, filling my lungs with air. My heart pounds against my chest as it rushes me back to life.
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Behind me, the aviary had grown unnaturally quiet. Scores of black orbish eyes peeped between the bars of their spacious cages—all looking at me.
When Mystic Critters hired me, they’d warned me that phoenixes are sentient. They’d failed to add that they are shameless eavesdroppers and malicious gossips.
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