Firebird

The first light of every dawn belonged to it. Before the sun crested the hills,

before color returned to the world, the Firebird rose — and the sky remembered

what it meant to burn.

It did not nest. It did not rest. From the last star of night to the first

warmth on sleeping skin, the Firebird flew in arcs so wide that entire kingdoms

passed beneath its wings without knowing they had been blessed. Every spark

that fell from its feathers struck the frost like a hammer on glass. Every cry

it released tore a seam in the darkness that winter had sewn shut.

Morana feared it — not because it could defeat her, but because it reminded the

world that she was temporary. The Firebird's heat was not a weapon. It was

evidence. Proof that the cold had limits. That the night could be broken.

Yet the Firebird alone could not crack the Egg. It had tried. Year after year,

it had descended with all its fury and pressed its burning breast against the

shell. The Egg remained whole. Warmth alone was not enough.

The Firebird was the war cry of spring. But the hand that opened the door

belonged to someone gentler.