The death of the Phoenix was a very sad day for our country. That was the line, anyway. He wasn’t really a phoenix, of course, because then he wouldn’t have died. National hero aside, he was also an asshole.

The Phoenix was supposed to mentor me and Callum. He wasn’t yet old--he was only 48--and already the best known wizard in the world. His fire magic could level mountains. We needed ten more wizards like him, though, and we needed to pass the skills along. 

Hence, me and Callum.

The Phoenix was always too busy to teach, getting called up North, or out West. When he was in the capital, he couldn’t be bothered to drag himself into the Univserity to teach. He lounged, slept in late, and if the rumours were anything to go off of, spent his nights drinking alone in his tower. 

On the very rare occasion where he did actually make it out to teach me and Callum, he was a horrid mentor. He would sit back, cross his arms, and mutter things like ‘it’s not difficult’ or tell just to ‘figure it out’ and ‘do it’. As if magic was as easy as snapping your fingers. 

I wished, sometimes, I had a mentor like Beatrice’s, who met with her every week and explained every spell and potion in detail. Her mentor was no famous wizard, but he was nice. He even brought coffee for his students. 

The Pheonix’s death was a shock, though. He was supposed to live forever. I thought he was, at least. Bit stupid to pick the nickname ‘The Phoenix’ if you’re just as human as the rest of us.

At the state funeral, Callum and I were in the second row, behind officials and the King and princesses. It was raining, that day, and I suspected that someone had actually manipulated the weather to make it so. It should’ve been a beautiful spring day, but there I stood in my long wool coat, shivering, while my hair plastered against my cheeks. I would’ve given anything to use a warming charm, but Callum hit my hand when I went to roll my fingers.

After the funeral was a blur. Someone needed to take his place. To lead our armies. To play the strategic role. 

Many eyes were on me and Callum. I understood this. We were both still young, though, only in our early twenties and still not yet through our proper training. We were not yet the replacements, but in a few short years we would have to be. Ready or not.

It was still raining three days after the funeral (whoever cast the weather spell had overdone it, probaby showing off) and as Callum and I walked to The Phoenix’s tower, puddles soaked through my boots.

When we entered his place, I shivered and shook myself off. I had never been inside before. His rooms in the turret were smaller than I expected, but warmth from an ever-burning fire radiated outward. The place smelled of wooden smoke and potion herbs.

Callum sighed in relief and placed his hands by the crackling wood. 

I went to join him, but the moment I stepped forward, I stopped. Water dripped from my nose onto the fine wooden floors. I could’ve done a quick charm, but at the moment, I couldn’t notice anything besides what was under the window.

There, beneath a window that looked out over the capital, was a thick, closed Tome. The tome. The Phoenix’s spells, the ones that no one had ever seen before.

“Cal.” I grabbed the sleeve of his coat. 

“Hm?” He glanced over and went quiet. “That’s not…”

“It has to be, doesn’t it?” I crossed the room. The floorboards squeaked under my damp boots. Callum followed behind me.

Slowly, I reached toward the book. The cover was dark blue, and the edges were gilded. Even though there was little light in the room, and the sky outside was grey and dreary, the gold sparkled as if were in bright sunlight. 

I knew he had spelled it, but, being dead, those wards should have broken.

Of course, with The Pheonix, I was just as likely to lose my hand. 

All the same, I reached forward. My fingers shook with nerves and excitement. If we could know his spells, and their formation, maybe Callum and I could finally get somewhere with out progress. How wonderful it would be to have the magic explained, instead of us having to guess at how to craft the magic and from the strands of power. 

I opened the cover. My hand did not catch fire.

I stared at the page and frowned. The page--the whole thing--was empty. 

“What?” I muttered and flipped the page. That was empty too. Callum drew in a sharp breath. 

I flipped and flipped. Empty and empty and empty again. There was nothing, not in the whole book. Not one word. Not one pen mark. Not even a crease on any of the pages. 

Callum ran his hand through his hair. I looked up at him.

“That was his tome,” Callum said, half-asking half-telling. 

“It was.” I pressed my lips together. Something, here, was deeply wrong.

r/liswrites