on a phoenix was no small thing. Phoenixes and humans communicated through animal magic, not shadow magic—except that was exactly what Avalkyra was doing.
It didn’t make sense and it shouldn’t have worked, and yet it did. This was no ordinary phoenix, old as she was, and Avalkyra was no ordinary shadowmage. They said shadow magic was born of death; her mother’s death gave her shadow magic in her first life, and her own death gave her shadow magic in her second. Two deaths. Did that make her magic twice as strong? She wasn’t sure, but she’d had decades to hone and master her dark gift. She might as well make use of it.
Avalkyra thought back to the first time she’d seen the phoenix, standing there among the ruins. Something about her behavior—her speech and mannerisms—had seemed strange to Avalkyra. Strange, and oddly human.
The phoenix had lived for centuries, Avalkyra guessed, her tail feathers longer than Avalkyra was tall. The creature had lived, and lost, and seen much. Too much, perhaps. Avalkyra thought about it often, about how much a single soul could endure. How much she could endure.
That was when she realized why she thought the creature seemed human.
It was her sadness.
A Morian priestess had explained to her once that shadow magic was a communion between minds of equal intelligence. That was why it worked only on humans and not animals, who were less intelligent.
Avalkyra had known there and then that while the priestess might study shadow magic, she certainly didn’t have it. Forgetting the fact that phoenixes were highly intelligent, her statement had still rung false. First of all, Avalkyra could use her shadow magic on any fool without the natural mental instincts—or instruction—to defend against it. And second, she’d come to understand the connection not as a meeting of like minds but as a meeting of shared experiences. Not necessarily in a literal sense, but all humans shared a certain understanding about life and death that most animals never could. That was, after all, the primary distinction between human and animal: awareness of mortality.
And that sadness, that darkness that came with death, was an integral part of humankind.
Shadow magic was darkness that sought other darkness. Avalkyra and Veronyka connected so easily because they were both human, but also because they shared so many memories—many of them dark and difficult—and surviving those trials had bound them together permanently.
Animal magic, on the other hand, was life seeking life, always searching for a flicker or a spark.
While humans and animals shared that spark of life, what they did not always share was the darkness.
Even phoenixes, intelligent and magical as they were, did not view death the way humans did. How could they? They were capable of resurrection, of living for hundreds of years without ever having to face the idea of dying. How could they possibly relate to the brief flicker of life that was humanity?
The most obvious way was through a magical bond. Sure, phoenixes could die in battle, but it had been a millennium since they’d fought in wars of their own against the strixes. Now if they fought, it was alongside their humans and for human matters. Through their bondmates, phoenixes began to understand concepts like language, strategy, and social custom. They also became aware of death—of the eventuality of their bondmate’s and the possibility of their own, both constant worries in the back of their human’s mind.
The phoenix before Avalkyra, however old she was, had clearly lived long among humans. Her internal speech was highly developed, if a bit scattered, and she understood words and their context beyond mere conversation, possessing a self-awareness Nyx had never come close to in all her years at Avalkyra’s side.
This phoenix had also surely been bonded, because it was that loss, that sorrow, that permeated her mind and her presence. Perhaps she had bonded more than once or had lived through many wars and battles. Whatever it was, this creature knew death, grasping its cold finality. And as a result, her mind was dark, darker than most phoenixes.
That was the thing Avalkyra had clung to when she’d punched her way into the phoenix’s mind. That was the bridge that spanned the distance between them. It had taken several attempts, but Avalkyra had done it; she’d broken down the phoenix’s mental barriers and put the bind in place. It wasn’t the same as a bond, where the link provided insight into thoughts and feelings and identity like an open door into the