The phoenix, golden, slipped into the shadows of the old church and he followed; shadows twisting round him like the strings of fate come loose from the golden frame on which they were woven. They threaded round his arms, round his legs and scrolled tapestries in black and it did not trouble him that he walked naked in the old grounds of this near forgotten place, clothed only in the shadows that were his birthright.

He entered the stone chamber, felt the oppressive weight of the rock surround him; the shadow here so deep and dark that it threatened the light and his heart caught on the symbolism as a sign of foreboding; a sign against the Light Witch, the Sorcier de Lumière ... his brother. Aelia Styliane's legacy was slipping away, fallen into dark, until his eyes fell on the light that spilled frail and moted like clouds of electrum upon the phoenix, girasole and gold, looking back at him with eyes of violet that glowed supernatural. The violet of her gaze shimmered through her form and then the phoenix stood as a woman, fair and tall and enigmatic in the silvered and stained light through the church glass.

"What boon will you give for the taking of the feather?" she asked, her voice rich and high and beautiful; sophistic-kin the quiet wisdom that lingered in the violet of her knowing study of him and he understood his nudity. "I cannot give my feathers away ... there is and must always be a price."