They traveled in silence the morning after the Garden of Giants.
The fire-colored petals clung to their boots, sticking like memories they hadn't asked for. The Phoenix's words echoed in Mike's mind with every step:
"Do not fear your path, Speaker. But do not walk it blindly."
The phrase had rooted itself in his chest. A warning? A challenge? He wasn't sure.
What he did know was this: something inside him had changed. It wasn't just the evolution of his bow—though that, too, felt like a living part of him now, its energy humming softly against his back. It was a feeling under his skin, behind his eyes, like the air itself bent toward him.
They camped that night beside a low stream fed by glowing rivulets of violet water. The ground pulsed gently beneath them, and the stars overhead swirled like paint dropped in water.
Mike sat apart from the fire, legs crossed, his hand resting on the feather the Phoenix had given him.
Across from him, Aero watched.
Her body had nearly doubled again in size over the last two days. Her wings stretched longer now, still edged in black but increasingly dusted with soft, silvery threads. When she moved, those feathers shimmered faintly, like starlight caught in motion.
"Why do I feel different?" Mike whispered.
Aero tilted her head.
"You feel it too, don't you?"
She stepped closer.
The bow at his back pulsed. Mike felt it warm against his spine. He laid the Phoenix feather on the ground and drew the bow into his hands.
Its wood, once dull and rough, now gleamed with a deep, oiled sheen. The silver inlay along the limbs had spread, forming quiet patterns that looked like flowing script. When he nocked an arrow, the string glowed faintly—blue at first, then fading.
He released.
The arrow struck a tree fifty feet away—and vanished.
No noise. No impact. Just gone.
Mike blinked. "What was—?"
A moment later, the arrow reappeared—embedded in a tree directly behind him.
Ren stood nearby, mouth open. "That's… new."
Mike turned the bow over slowly. "It's responding to me."
"Or it's learning," Ren offered.
Aero made a soft, musical sound—a chirp that vibrated oddly in Mike's ears.
He turned toward her. "Do that again."
Aero chirped once more, her eyes locking with his.
This time, he heard it not just as sound—but as intent.
"Yes."
Mike's heart skipped. "Did… did you just—?"
She bowed her head slowly.
Mike staggered backward, sitting hard on the moss.
Ren blinked. "Did she just talk?"
"Not with words," Mike said breathlessly. "But I heard her. In my head. Clear as a bell."
Aero stepped forward and pressed her forehead to Mike's. The connection deepened—a soft current flowing between them.
Images flashed across his mind.
Flying high above the clouds. The Garden. The Phoenix. A vision of Jake—older, smiling, standing beside a glowing stone arch. Then the arch shattered, and darkness swallowed everything.
Mike gasped, breaking the connection.
Aero stepped back, breathing hard.
Ren knelt beside him. "What did you see?"
"Visions," Mike whispered. "Possibilities. Warnings, maybe. And Jake… smiling. Older."
Ren sat back. "So… maybe he can be healed."
Mike nodded slowly. "Maybe. But only if I keep going."
He looked down at the Phoenix feather, which now pulsed faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The bow was no longer just a weapon.
It was a bridge.
A connection to something older than kings… and deeper than memory.
Mike looked to the stars above—swirling, endless—and for the first time, he didn't feel small beneath them.
He felt chosen.