CHAPTER 68: CHILD’S PAIN

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And the entire column of light twisted upward, streaming like a fire tornado toward the cavern’s roof. Then it punched through, spiraling through cracks in the volcanic ceiling, tearing toward the heavens like a comet made of flame and memory.

Fenna looked up, her mouth open in silent awe. Through the ruptured stone dome, she saw the sky.

It was still dark. But high above, where dawn had not yet touched the world, a new light blazed.

The ember-mana that had been the Matron streaked across the firmament. It was gathering, condensing, and soaring.

It arced toward the east. Toward the rising sun.

And as it vanished into the golden disk of morning, the light did not fade. The sun shone brighter. As if welcoming its daughter home.

Fenna didn’t weep. Not this time. She stood slowly, Emberling clutched to her chest, and raised her wrist.

There, etched faintly but glowing beneath the skin, was a delicate phoenix-shaped mark. It pulsed once. Warmth flooded her palm.

Not fire. Not magic. But Understanding.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

There is a particular quiet that follows a legend’s passing—a hush so absolute it seems carved into time itself. Once the Ember Matron’s final flare vanished beyond the chasm ceiling, heat still clung to the volcanic air, but something deeper had gone with her. The molten lake slowed its bubbling cadence, as though it, too, paid tribute. The stone walls, once alive with crackling reflections, settled into a reflective amber glow.

Fenna remained kneeling on the cooling obsidian platform, her body numb from reverence and exhaustion. Beside her, Emberling—the tiny phoenix who had only moments ago chirped in wonder as her mother ascended now stood frozen. Her head cocked toward the cracked dome through which the Matron’s light had vanished.

A single, tremulous whimper slipped from the chick’s beak. Then another. And then—

A wail.

It began soft, like the tremor of a candle flame in the wind. But grief, once stirred, only climbs, and soon the little bird’s cries echo through the cavern, bouncing off every scorched ridge and molten pool. It wasn’t a shriek of pain; it was a sound of irreparable loss, too large for such a small creature to hold.

Fenna’s heart spasmed at the sound. She scooped Emberling into her arms at once. The chick fought the embrace, flailing stubby wings, ember motes scattering with every frantic flap.

"Hush, little one," Fenna whispered, pressing the bird’s warm form to her chest. "I’m here. I’m here."

But the phoenix chick could not be soothed. Her glowing eyes brimming with liquid fire, she beat her wings harder, emitting sparks that sizzled against Fenna’s clothes. Tiny talons dug into Fenna’s reborn skin, yet even that sting couldn’t pierce the sorrow that crashed between them.

Fenna began to rock—gently, instinctively, humming the first melody her childhood memory conjured. It was an old lullaby, little more than a braided strand of notes about moonlit rivers and safe nests. But Emberling screeched louder, the sound shredding Fenna’s nerves like shards of glass.

The chick’s tears fell as droplets of liquid gold. Each tear vaporized on the stone with a hiss, leaving faint rings of soot that smeared into shapes of smoky feathers.

Fenna tried again, this time conjuring harmless coils of warm flame that formed little phoenix silhouettes in the air. She wove the shapes into a gentle dance: mother and chick turning in slow, luminous circles. Emberling’s eyes followed them for the briefest heartbeat... then she wailed anew, and the illusions burst into chaotic sparks.

"Please," Fenna begged softly. "I know... you are in pain, I am feeling it too. We are connected by heart. Don’t cry."

She attempted feeding the bird next. With trembling hands she cracked open a pouch of charfruit pulp. It was sweet, ember-rich fruit the Matron said hatchlings adored. Emberling pecked at it once, but then shoved it away, smearing fiery pulp across Fenna’s sleeve.

Fenna’s throat burned with helplessness. She laid a silk obsidian blanket on the stone, swaddled Emberling inside, and hummed again, pressing gentle warmth from her palms into the blanket. True Fire meant to soothe. Yet the chick wailed on.

Minutes crawled into an hour. Fenna never let go. She shifted position only to prevent numbness, kneeling then sitting cross-legged, then drawing her knees to her chest with the bundle of sorrow clutched tight. Her own tears came and went, silent rivers carving tracks through ash on her cheeks. She was experiencing all the pain, that the little Emberling was feeling.

Grief, she discovered, is a twin-edged flame: it devours and it purifies. And as Emberling’s cries filled the cavern, Fenna felt not anger but an expanding emptiness in the room, perhaps, for something new to grow.

Finally, exhaustion nipped at the chick’s wings. Her screeches cracked, softened into hoarse chirrups, then dwindled to hiccupping breaths. She hiccuped once more, warm sparks dripping from her beak, and slumped in Fenna’s lap, head tucked against her reborn flame mark.

The quiet returned—tentative, like a beast sniffing an unfamiliar clearing.

Fenna dared not move. She stroked the downy feathers with trembling fingers, feeling the faint pulse of heat that matched her own heartbeat. Hours seemed to collapse into a single, fragile moment.

And then, from a jagged fissure above, the first pale glow of dawn spilled inward. It was not the molten light of magma but true sunlight. A soft pink and gold, wandering in slender shafts through cracks the Matron had opened. Dust particles drifted lazily in the beam, each one catching sunrise hues.

Fenna looked up. The sky beyond has woken.

She breathed in the light, then looked down at Emberling. The chick slept deeply, occasionally twitching, beak opening in noiseless chirps. Every exhale released a faint plume of shimmering warmth.

"I’ll carry it for us," Fenna murmured. "Your hurt, my hurt... we’ll turn it into something bright."

Slowly and carefully, Fenna rose. Her knees wobbled from hours on stone. She secured Emberling in the obsidian-silk blanket, forming a snug sling across her torso. The chick settled with a sleepy trill, the fiery whorls in her feathers dimming to a comfortable glow.