Eryndor pressed his palm to the ancient oak’s bark, whispering the words of binding. The air shimmered as roots coiled around his feet, granting him passage. He stepped through the great tree and emerged atop the cloud-wreathed peaks of Aelvarion, the last refuge of the Skyforged Phoenix.
The beast lay wounded, its golden feathers dull, chained by iron blessed to drain its fire. Below, the armies of Vhaskar marched, seeking to harness the Phoenix’s power for conquest. Eryndor raised his staff, drawing breath from the storm itself. Lightning crackled through his veins as he struck the chains, shattering them.
The Phoenix screamed, rising in a blaze of renewed fire. Vhaskar’s soldiers faltered as the sky ignited, their weapons turning to molten slag. Victorious, Eryndor watched as the Phoenix soared, its return ensuring the world’s balance. As he turned away, golden embers clung to his skin—marked now, no longer merely mortal.
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