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From Winter, Spring

Early hours in the morning, or late at night depending on who you asked, the rose would begin to brighten. The red smoke that bleed from it coiled around the stem. Soon enough, the eleven other roses started to bud from the stem as if creating its own bush from the single rose. They were brilliant, healthy. Alive.

Aranya had just returned from snooping around Stormwind and transporting the body of Kerrwynn’s tormentor to a safe, secret place in Arathi. The phoenix ached. She always ached, lately, the healing from the fel blast was slow. But as she stretched her aching spine, she caught the change, and watched with amazement as the last of the roses that Celestine Winters had given her rejuvenated with a vengeance.

The sorceress’ jaw dropped. A silent, delighted gasp escaped her. She was beside the blooms in an instant. Her slender hands curled around the leaves and stems, unmindful of the thorns. She buried her nose into their snowy petals.

“You’re back,” she sighed. “Somewhere in the world, you’re back. You’ve come back to us all.”

Aranya almost cried in relief.

... Almost. But not quite.

A soft, mirthless laugh escaped on a short huff of breath. “You’re back just as I have yet to be taken from you, possibly,” she breathed. “No matter. You’ve already shown me you’ll still be first to see the phoenix where others will have yet to see beyond the ashes.” She lifted one hand away from the stems, a drop of blood trickling over her palm from the prick of a thorn. “And I may come to you with more than ash-stains on my hands and face soon enough, dear queen.”

Aranya breathed deep, let her other thoughts go. The Phoenix would see her dear Wolf Queen again. It was enough for now.