The fire dims as the ash piles into a small mound, the grey mixed with orange embers. I watch with fascinated eyes, quill and book in hand as I scribble down notes. This species was hard to find, only the best wizards and philosophers having them in their possession, none willing to let me observe. But now I have one, one that had been on it’s last wings if you know what I mean.
I look back at the pile, glasses low on my nose as I stare intently. For a sign of movement or caving in of the cinders. Right as I’m about to write something else down, something shifts. I quickly rise from my seat, staring at the dish of soot as something begins to emerge. The first thing I see is it’s beak, a tiny squawk sounding from the creature as it burrows it’s way out.
I smile wide, carefully brushing the dust from it’s molting skin as it continues to chirp, looking up at me with it’s large eyes. As I pick up the small bird, my heart swells with triumph. I have finally done it. I have seen and recorded the life cycle of the phoenix.