A few minutes after leaving the next and the wind is doing that thing again. You know. That roar-screech-whisper hybrid that feels like it's trying to tell you a secret and scream in your face at the same time?
Anyway, I'm airborne.
Again.
Cradled against a giant flaming death bird because apparently that's my life now. We love that for me.
The Phoenix's feathers are warm, almost too warm—like dryer-fresh laundry, if the dryer was inside the sun. The world underneath is just… smeared paint. Purple fog, black forests, blood-orange flames. Twilight threw up everywhere.
And of course, we're going back.
Back to the mansion.
Back to my maybe-haunted, definitely-too-big-for-one-girl house with way too many chandeliers and secrets and emotional undertones.
I glance down.
Which, yes, was a mistake.
It's not like I wanted to see the stakes again, but there they are. Still burning. Still smoldering. Still looking like props from some grimdark theatre production titled "Human Cruelty: A Cabaret."
There are corpses. Or shadows of corpses. People? Not-people? Who even knows. All I can think is that they're… charred. Like, black-ribbed skeletons tied up like someone's very bad Halloween idea that got way too real. And I swear I can still hear screaming. Or maybe that's just my brain.
Either way—love that for me.
My hand slaps against my chest like maybe I can muffle the ache building there. Nope. It's still bubbling. Still curling like a fist in my stomach. My body wants to puke but also cry but also dissociate and float out of here on a cloud of delusion. Relatable.
And the worst part?
I might've done this.
Not like… done done it. But, like, written it. Drafted it. Conceptualized it in some old notebook I scribbled in while high on cold meds and teenage rage. What if I just forgot? What if this was some forgotten side world I spun out for fun and then tossed aside because boys in my high school said fantasy was "cringe"?
Cool. Cool cool cool.
Love internalized misogyny and the consequences of my own imagination.
I grip the Phoenix's feathers a little too hard. Sorry, Bird Jesus. My bad.
Do I feel guilty? Yes.
Do I feel guilty for not knowing how guilty I should feel? Also yes.
Eventually, the hellscape fades out behind us like a bad dream or an ex-boyfriend's mixtape. Forests crawl back in like they were waiting their turn. Mountains rise up in the distance, all cold and emotionally distant like a man with commitment issues. Snow caps and smug silence. Beautiful. Probably hiding something.
And then—ta-da.
The mansion.
It's giving "final boss lair" with a hint of "she inherited this from her great-great-grandmother who may or may not have been a vampire." Also? Too symmetrical. Makes me nervous.
We swoop over the garden. Everything's back in its place, too pristine, like the universe doesn't want to admit what happened out there. My window glows like a spotlight, and inside?
Selain.
Still curled up in that stupid velvet chair. Sleeping like the world hasn't been on fire. Her hair drapes like she's in a shampoo commercial. Of course it does. If peace had a face, it'd be hers. And I hate that a little bit.
The Phoenix lands like it's done this before. Because it has. Because it's smarter than me. It waits. Patiently. Majestic and mildly condescending.
I dismount. Kinda. More like slide. My legs do that embarrassing tremble thing like I'm a newborn deer or a girl trying to wear heels on cobblestone. Floor's cold. My bones feel colder.
It stares at me.
And I stare back.
There's something in its gaze. Understanding? Pity? Deep cosmic knowledge that I, a tragic little narrative goblin, will never comprehend?
Maybe all of it.
Its wings fold like a robe. Regal. Protective. Like it knows I'm about to spiral into another anxiety attack and it's respectfully stepping back.
I open my mouth. To say what?
"Thanks for the lift"?
"Sorry about maybe destroying your world"?
"I'm just a girl standing in front of a magical bird, asking it not to judge me"?
But nothing comes out. Shocking. Me? Speechless? Mark your calendars.