The spot where Ember had burned his final blaze became sacred.
Phoenixes were rare, but from across the skies, embers began to fall—tiny glowing feathers drifting from the heavens.
One by one, young phoenixes hatched from them—each with different colors: silver, indigo, flame-red, and even one glowing with blue fire.
They circled the Blooming Field for days before choosing a nest in the tallest tree.
The phoenixes didn't speak. They remembered.
Lucky often sat beneath them, telling stories about Ember. His laughter. His fire. His reckless heart.
And the birds would sing in response.