The forest was deep and tangled, the perfect hunting ground for La Ciguapa. She crept through the canopy, her long hair dragging like a shadow. Moonlit Vanishing. She was an ambush predator, thriving in the gloom.
Above the trees, a star fell.
It wasn't a star. It was the Phoenix.
The firebird drifted down, its plumage radiating a gentle, golden light. It was looking for a place to build a pyre.
La Ciguapa hissed. "Too bright." She prepared to strike, to snuff out the light.
The Noon at Midnight
The Phoenix sensed the malice. It flared its wings.
Solar Flame Flight.
The gentle glow turned into a blinding supernova. The forest was instantly illuminated with the intensity of high noon. Shadows were banished.
La Ciguapa shrieked, shielding her eyes. Her camouflage was useless. She stood exposed on the branch, a naked, terrified spirit.
The heat was oppressive. The leaves began to curl. La Ciguapa, realizing she was roughly as flammable as kindling, abandoned her hunt. She turned and ran—her backward feet kicking up dust—fleeing for the darkest, dampest ravine she could find. The Phoenix watched her go, then settled down to preen its burning feathers.