The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

Jean Grey—almost ten years old, freshly arrived at Camp Half-Blood, and already sporting a confidence most campers took years to develop—was settling in surprisingly well. Of course, it helped that Harry Lokison was guiding her through every step of the way. And Hermione, daughter of Athena, had a binder full of notes on the best ways to survive camp.

"So, what's first on the agenda?" Jean asked, practically bouncing as they strolled toward the training grounds. Her red hair glinted in the afternoon sun, and she moved with the energy of someone ready to take on the world. "Sword fighting? Archery? Or something weird like, I don't know, dodging enchanted cows?"

Harry grinned, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. "Weird? Nah, everything here is weird. I'm thinking we start with archery. You know, get a feel for things before we move on to advanced survival tactics. Like, uh, running really fast when something's on fire."

"Or when you're the one who started the fire," Hermione muttered, not even glancing up from her notebook.

"That was one time!" Harry protested, holding up his hands. "Okay, fine. Twice. But I had a really good reason!"

"Like what?" Jean asked, half-laughing.

Harry leaned in conspiratorially. "It was boring. Something had to be done."

They reached the archery range, where campers were already practicing. Targets lined up along the far end of the field, and every so often, an arrow zipped through the air with varying degrees of accuracy. A few of the Apollo kids, show-offs that they were, hit bullseyes without even looking.

"Think you can handle a bow?" Harry asked, nudging Jean. "Or do you just want to use your super-awesome-cosmic-energy-powers to blast the targets into another dimension?"

Jean rolled her eyes. "Tempting, but I'll try it the old-fashioned way." She glanced at Harry. "For now."

He handed her a bow and quiver of arrows, already stepping back to watch with a smug grin. "Just remember: Pull the string back, aim, and try not to shoot anyone in the foot. Especially yourself."

Jean raised the bow, fumbled slightly with the arrow, but eventually managed to line it up. She took a deep breath, focused... and released. The arrow sailed majestically through the air—and lodged itself right in the dirt five feet away.

Hermione winced. "Well, you hit something."

"Technically, you didn't shoot anyone in the foot," Harry offered, ever the optimist. "So that's a win."

Jean laughed, tossing the bow to her side. "All right, what's next? Maybe something where I don't have to worry about gravity ruining my plans."

"Now you're thinking like a demigod," Harry said approvingly.

After a quick detour to avoid a herd of stampeding pegasi (because Camp Half-Blood was nothing if not predictably chaotic), they arrived at the sparring arena.

Luke Castellan, the ever-charming son of Hermes, was already running drills with a group of campers. When he saw Harry and company, he flashed his trademark grin. "I hope she's ready for a crash course in sword fighting."

Jean gave him a determined look. "Bring it."

Luke tossed her a wooden sword. "Confidence. I like that."

Jean hefted the weapon in her hand, weighing it. She wasn't a natural with a sword, but she had the kind of stubbornness that meant she'd figure it out. Harry leaned casually on the fence, grinning like a proud big brother.

"She's fearless," Harry said. "And if things go sideways, well… she has a backup plan involving cosmic fire."

Luke arched an eyebrow. "Cosmic fire?"

"Long story," Hermione said dryly. "You'll want earplugs."

Jean took her stance as Luke raised his sword in challenge. They circled each other slowly, the other campers watching with growing interest.

"Okay, Jean," Harry called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Rule number one: Don't get hit! Rule number two: If you do get hit, pretend it was all part of the plan!"

Luke lunged, but Jean parried just in time, her wooden sword clacking against his. She grinned—this was fun.

"Not bad," Luke admitted, backing off for another round. "You've got guts. Now let's see if you've got skills."

Jean swung again, not exactly graceful but enthusiastic. And as Luke blocked her strike, she could already feel herself adjusting, reading his movements, learning on the fly. She wasn't a natural swordswoman, but the Phoenix inside her had an instinct for survival.

When the spar ended, Luke gave her an approving nod. "You'll do just fine, kid."

Jean grinned and turned to Harry and Hermione. "That was awesome. What's next?"

Harry clapped her on the back. "Next? We hit the climbing wall—while it's on fire."

"Of course it's on fire," Jean muttered, but she was smiling.

Hermione sighed. "I'm starting to think every activity here ends with something on fire."

Harry grinned. "What's life without a little excitement?"

As they made their way to the next challenge, Jean felt lighter than she had in a long time. She might not have everything figured out yet—her powers, her place in the universe, or what it meant to be the Phoenix—but with friends like Harry and Hermione by her side, she knew one thing for sure: Camp Half-Blood was already starting to feel like home.

—

In the cozy glow of the Big House's library, with the fire crackling in the hearth and books piled high like they were waiting for someone to trip over them, Chiron sat across from Jean, Harry, and Hermione. His enchanted wheelchair creaked a little as he shifted, his expression a perfect blend of I have something really important to tell you and but I'll wait for you to stop panicking first.

Jean, however, was already halfway to panic town. She fidgeted with the hem of her Camp Half-Blood shirt, trying to ignore the way it suddenly felt ten sizes too small. The air around her felt charged, like something big was about to happen—probably involving cosmic forces and a lot of fire. Spoiler: it usually did.

"So," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage, "you said you'd tell us about the Phoenix. What it wants. And, you know… what it means for me."

Chiron gave her one of those serious, wise-old-centaur nods. "Yes. To understand your connection to the Phoenix Force, Jean, you need to hear a story. A very old one. It's about the first mortal to ever bond with the Phoenix—someone known as Firehair."

Hermione practically sat on the edge of her seat, her brain already cataloging potential historical sources. "Firehair? That's not a name I've ever come across."

Chiron smiled softly, like he was letting them in on some ancient secret. "That's because Firehair's story comes from a time long before the gods—or history, for that matter. She lived when humanity was just figuring out things like fire and, you know, not running from every animal with sharp teeth. Firehair was an outcast among her tribe, marked by her hair—bright red, like embers. But it was her spirit that first caught the Phoenix's attention. She was wild, fearless. And the Phoenix likes that sort of thing."

Harry leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head with a smirk. "Sounds like my kind of person."

Chiron's expression darkened just a bit. "Perhaps. But the Phoenix doesn't choose lightly. It only seeks a host when the universe stands on the edge of change—when creation and destruction are perfectly balanced. And while it grants incredible power, it also brings challenges that no mortal can avoid."

Jean shifted uncomfortably, that flicker of cosmic fire inside her responding like it was stretching awake. "What happened to her?"

Chiron's gaze grew distant, as if he could see the whole ancient story unfolding before him. "She accepted the Phoenix and became both protector and destroyer. She saved countless lives and burned away countless others. Over time, though, the power became too much—even for her. Firehair became legend. Some feared her. Others worshiped her. But in the end… she disappeared. When the Phoenix was finished with her, it left, and she was gone."

Jean stared at her hands, half-expecting them to burst into flames. "So… that could happen to me?"

Chiron leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "That depends on you, Jean. Firehair didn't have what you have—people who care about her, people who'll stick by her no matter what." He glanced meaningfully at Harry and Hermione. "That's your greatest strength. And your greatest hope."

Harry gave Jean a lopsided grin. "So, basically, all we have to do is stop you from exploding and everything'll be fine. No pressure."

Hermione swatted him, but she was smiling. "You know it's more complicated than that, Harry."

"Isn't it always?"

Jean let out a short laugh despite herself. Somehow, it was impossible to stay stressed for too long around these two. "Thanks, guys. Real comforting."

Chiron's expression softened, though there was still a weight to his words. "The Phoenix Force isn't your enemy, Jean. It's a gift—but a dangerous one. If you try to fight it, it will fight back. But if you learn to work with it, if you can align your will with its purpose, you could accomplish things even Firehair never dreamed of."

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "Does the Phoenix have a… will of its own? I mean, can it make Jean do things she doesn't want to?"

Chiron gave a slow nod. "The Phoenix Force is ancient—older than the gods themselves. It exists to bring about rebirth, even if that means destruction comes first. If Jean resists it, the Phoenix will push harder. But if she learns to wield it with intention, she can control it. She can channel its power, instead of being consumed by it."

Jean's heart thudded in her chest. No pressure, right? Just casually master a cosmic force that could blow up entire galaxies if she wasn't careful. No big deal.

Harry leaned closer, his grin equal parts mischief and reassurance. "Hey, Phoenix, you've got this. And you've got us. If you start glowing too much, Hermione will hit you with a book, and I'll—I don't know—throw a bucket of water on you or something."

Jean laughed, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. "Thanks, Lokison. Real helpful."

"Anytime." Harry gave a mock salute.

Chiron chuckled at their banter, but his eyes remained serious. "Remember this, Jean: the Phoenix Force doesn't decide your future. Firehair's story isn't a prophecy—it's a lesson. You're not bound to her fate. You get to choose what kind of flame you'll be. Will you burn the world to ashes? Or will you light a path that others can follow?"

Jean glanced between her two best friends—her family, really. Whatever happened next, she wouldn't face it alone. That much she knew.

"Well," she said, squaring her shoulders, "I guess I'll just have to figure it out as I go."

"And we'll be right there with you," Hermione added, squeezing her hand.

Chiron rose, his hooves making a soft clop against the wooden floor. "Take heart, Jean. The past can guide you, but it doesn't control you. You are not Firehair. You are Jean. And your story is just beginning."

As the centaur disappeared down the hall, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Jean exhaled, her heart still pounding, but a little steadier now. The Phoenix burned inside her, wild and untamed—but for the first time, it didn't feel quite so overwhelming.

She had Harry. She had Hermione. And no matter what the universe—or the Phoenix—threw at her next, she wouldn't face it alone.

"Alright," Jean said, standing up and brushing off her jeans. "What's next?"

Harry grinned. "How do you feel about setting stuff on fire?"

Jean rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "You would say that."

And with that, the three of them headed out into the night—ready, as always, to take on whatever crazy cosmic nonsense came their way next.

—

The heat in the forges of Camp Half-Blood was intense, but for Jean, it was nothing compared to the cosmic fire crackling just beneath her skin, itching for a chance to burst free. She stood next to Charles Beckendorf, the almost ten-year-old son of Hephaestus, who was in his element hammering away at a glowing blade on the anvil. Sparks flew with every strike, and the air smelled like melted metal mixed with a hint of smoke—basically, the best smell ever.

Harry lounged on a nearby workbench, tossing a golden gear in the air with all the nonchalance of someone who had no idea how many times Jean had almost burned the camp down. "So, Jean," he drawled, catching the gear with bored precision. "Any chance you can learn to not accidentally ignite stuff? It'd be great if we didn't have to spend all day putting out fires. I mean, literally."

Jean shot him a flat look. "You make it sound like I've burned down half the camp."

"Just the fun half," Harry replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Charles, not bothering to look up from his work, chimed in, "Hey, I liked that bonfire. Until the pavilion caught fire, that is."

Jean groaned and buried her face in her hands. "That was an accident! I sneezed!"

"Yeah, but what a sneeze," Harry teased, clearly loving this whole back-and-forth.

"Okay, focus." Charles handed Jean a pair of tongs, holding a piece of molten bronze that gleamed like a captured star. "You want to control your fire, right? Then you have to practice. Start small."

Jean eyed the glowing metal, half-skeptical. "And by 'start small,' you mean…?"

Charles grinned like a kid in a candy store. "Don't melt it. Yet."

Jean rolled her eyes but took the metal gingerly. She could already feel the power thrumming just under her skin, like an overcharged battery ready to explode. Cosmic pyrokinesis wasn't just fire; it was primordial energy, a spark of creation itself. No pressure or anything.

"Okay, the goal is to heat the metal," Charles explained, gesturing to a nearby furnace. "Just enough so it stays malleable while I work on it. But no explosions, no wild bursts. You've gotta talk to the fire, not force it."

"Talk to the fire," Jean repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"It's a metaphor," Charles said with a shrug. "Kinda. Just focus."

Harry leaned over, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Come on, Phoenix. Show us what you got!"

Jean closed her eyes and took a deep breath, imagining the fire inside her—not as a raging inferno but as a quiet flame, steady and warm, like a loyal dog waiting for a command. Slowly, she let a tendril of power trickle into the metal in her hands. The bronze glowed brighter but didn't melt.

"That's it," Charles encouraged, tapping the metal with his hammer. "Just like that. Keep it steady."

Jean grinned. "Hey, this isn't so hard—"

And then the metal flared white-hot for a second, and Harry yelped, diving off the workbench like a cat caught in a bathtub. "Jean! That's not steady!"

"Oops!" she panicked, clamping down on her powers before the bronze turned into molten goo. The glow dimmed, returning the metal to a warm orange hue.

Charles let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Not bad for your first try. You didn't melt anything. Mostly."

Jean shot Harry an apologetic look, but he was already dusting himself off, a wild grin plastered on his face. "That was awesome! Do it again. But, you know, without trying to barbecue me next time."

Jean rolled her eyes but felt a flicker of pride. She had come close—closer than she thought she could.

Charles adjusted his goggles, handing her another piece of metal. "Again. And this time, trust yourself. The fire's part of you, not something to fight against."

Jean nodded, determination flooding her veins. She could do this. She would do this. With a deep breath, she reached for the fire within her once more. This time, it responded smoothly, like a cat finally deciding to sit on her lap. The bronze in her hands glowed bright and steady, and Charles grinned in approval.

"There you go," he said. "You're getting it."

For the next few hours, the trio worked side by side, Jean slowly gaining confidence in her control. Charles guided her patiently, offering tips on how to regulate heat and pressure, while Harry provided a steady stream of sarcastic encouragement from the sidelines.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Jean was exhausted but exhilarated. She had spent the whole day channeling her cosmic fire without a single accident (okay, aside from singeing Harry's shoelaces, but that was basically a win).

As they cleaned up the forge, Charles gave her a small nod. "You're gonna be good at this, Jean. Just keep practicing. Fire isn't something to fear—it's just waiting for the right hands to shape it."

Jean smiled, feeling lighter than she had in days. "Thanks, Charles. I think I'm starting to get it."

Harry threw an arm around her shoulders, his grin wider than ever. "See? Told you it'd be fun. And look—no catastrophes! I'm proud of you, Phoenix."

Jean grinned, leaning into him. "Thanks. But don't think I won't accidentally torch you again, Lokison."

Harry laughed, feigning horror. "Fair. Just give me a heads-up next time, okay?"

As they walked back toward the cabins, the night sky glittering with stars, Jean couldn't help but feel that, for the first time in a long while, she was finally in control. Not just of her powers, but of her future.

And with friends like Charles and Harry by her side, she knew she could handle whatever came next—whether it was mastering cosmic pyrokinesis or figuring out her place in this wild demigod world.

—

Chthon, the Elder God with a penchant for chaos and a flair for the dramatic, was enjoying his extended vacation at Mount Wundagore. Seriously, what's a few billion years in the grand scheme of things? While the rest of the universe busied itself with mundane matters like politics and taxes, Chthon lounged around, plotting his grand comeback.

But then he felt it—a ripple in the fabric of reality that sent shivers down his ancient spine. It was the Phoenix Force, that fiery cosmic entity known for creating avatars with godlike powers. And this time, it had set its sights on two intriguing children: almost ten-year-old Jean Grey and a certain ten-year-old godling named Haris Lokison. Perfect, Chthon thought, a sly grin spreading across his face. If the Phoenix is interested, it means the chaos is about to begin.

Wanda Maximoff, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the cosmic shenanigans swirling around her. At the tender age of nine, she was busy honing her powers under the watchful eye of her father, Magneto. She and her twin brother, Pietro, were training in a secluded part of the forest, their home sweet home—where the air crackled with the remnants of magic and the echoes of their family's storied past.

"Come on, Wanda! Focus!" Pietro yelled, zipping around her like a caffeinated hummingbird. "You've got to feel the energy, not just throw it around like a tantrum."

Wanda shot him an annoyed glance. "I am focused! You try controlling chaos magic while dodging your own reflection!"

But there was something else lurking in her mind, a whispering presence that had been nagging at her for weeks. Chthon had subtly been laying the groundwork for his influence, forging an invisible connection between himself and Wanda since the day she was born. His dark magic danced along the edges of her consciousness, nudging her toward madness while twisting her twin's mind to sow seeds of doubt between them.

"Did you hear that?" Wanda asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she turned her head. She had felt it again, that prickling sensation in the air, like static electricity before a storm.

"Hear what?" Pietro replied, pausing mid-stride. "The sound of your overactive imagination?"

"No, seriously! Something's off." She took a deep breath, trying to ground herself. But the shadows danced just out of sight, whispering promises of power and chaos that felt both tantalizing and terrifying.

You belong to me, Wanda, the voice echoed in her mind, smooth and tempting, like dark chocolate melting on the tongue. Together, we shall unleash chaos upon this boring old world.

"Get out of my head!" she shouted, startling Pietro, who was still trying to figure out how to stop running in circles without falling over.

Pietro blinked, his super-speed-induced dizziness fading. "Wanda, are you okay? You sound a bit… frantic."

"I'm fine!" she insisted, though her heart raced with a mix of fear and adrenaline. "I just feel… connected to something. Something ancient."

You are destined for greatness, child, Chthon purred from the recesses of her mind. Just surrender to me, and you will be unstoppable.

Wanda shook her head, desperately trying to push the voice away. She could feel the chaotic energy pulsing within her, like a storm on the verge of breaking. "I won't let you control me!" she yelled, the defiance surging through her.

Meanwhile, Chthon was relishing the chaos he was stirring. She needs a guiding hand… or perhaps a guiding mind, he thought, smirking. If he could use Wanda to tip the scales of power, he could walk the earth again, unshackled and glorious.

As Wanda summoned her chaotic energy, the air shimmered, and a crackle of magic shot through the trees. She felt the connection between herself and Chthon intensifying, tugging at her like a string being pulled taut. "I just need to figure out how to control this…" she murmured, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"Control what? Are you talking to that voice again?" Pietro asked, tilting his head with a mix of concern and curiosity.

Wanda looked at him, torn. The bond they shared as twins was strong, but the whispers of Chthon were relentless, trying to turn her brother against her. "Pietro, I think we need to be careful. There's something out there, something dark."

"Yeah, like you talking to yourself in the woods! What's next, are you going to start wearing a pointy hat and brewing potions?" he teased, trying to lighten the mood. But underneath his playful banter, he felt the nagging worry that something was off with Wanda.

As the siblings continued their training, the shadows loomed closer, and Chthon's influence deepened, subtly shifting Wanda's perspective and distorting her bond with Pietro. With the Phoenix's new avatars stirring up cosmic drama, the stage was set for chaos, and Chthon couldn't wait to see how his plans would unfold.

For Wanda Maximoff, the path ahead was fraught with peril, temptation, and an ancient power that wanted nothing more than to make her its vessel. And as she stood at the precipice of destiny, one thing was clear: she would have to fight not just for her powers, but for her very soul. The battle for control had only just begun.

—

Meanwhile, somewhere between the starry abyss of the cosmos and the murky depths of Harry's imagination, Nyx, the primordial goddess of night, was having a very good day. As she lounged in her ethereal realm—draped in shadows, surrounded by swirling constellations, and being absolutely fabulous—she felt a delightful tingle in her core. That tingle meant one thing: her favorite disciple, ten-year-old Harry Potter, was up to something interesting.

"Ah, Harry," she mused, her voice smooth like the surface of a calm lake under a moonlit sky. "What kind of mischief are you brewing today?"

For the past couple of years, Nyx had been visiting Harry in his dreams, teaching him the art of Umbrakinesis—the control of shadows—and Dream Control, alongside a few other tricks that made the typical school subjects look like child's play. Honestly, she could barely contain her excitement watching him grow, her little shadow-wielding protégé, all while lounging in the most fabulous celestial lounge chair imaginable.

Today, though, Harry had taken a bold leap into uncharted territory. He had made friends with none other than Jean Grey, the new Avatar of the Phoenix Force. Oh, how thrilling! she thought, a wicked grin spreading across her face. The cosmic drama was thick in the air, and she could practically feel the flames of the Phoenix igniting Harry's path.

"Jean Grey, huh? This should be fun." Nyx flicked her wrist, summoning a swirling cloud of shadows around her as she watched from her celestial perch. Harry, with his tousled black hair and that trademark spark of mischief in his eyes, was at the center of it all. She had seen the two kids meet during one of their little adventures, and Harry had effortlessly charmed the fiery girl, much to Nyx's delight.

What was it about this friendship that had caught the attention of the Phoenix Force? The goddess knew that Jean's connection to such a powerful entity could shift the balance of power in ways no one could predict. And with Harry, son of Artemis and Loki—two gods known for their own brand of chaos—it was like mixing fireworks with a thunderstorm.

"Let's see where this goes," Nyx whispered, her eyes gleaming like the stars. She sensed the Phoenix's interest in Harry. The bond they were forming could unlock untold potential, but it also carried risks. The shadows of fate danced around them, twisting and turning, hinting at a future filled with both wonder and danger.

As she considered the possibilities, Nyx felt a familiar pulse of energy wash over her. It was a sensation she had felt before, an echo of something grand—a signal that the Phoenix Force was drawing nearer to Harry. "Oh, darling, you're in for a wild ride," she chuckled softly, picturing Harry's reactions when the fiery bird's interest truly manifested.

But beyond the playful banter, Nyx was also aware of the dark undercurrents threatening to pull them into chaos. Chthon's influence was lurking in the shadows, and while Harry was honing his skills under her guidance, the forces of madness were also at play. "You better watch your back, my dear," she cautioned silently, knowing that the bond with Jean could draw unwanted attention from the likes of Chthon.

Nyx leaned back, her figure shifting seamlessly into the shadows as she continued to observe. She relished the unfolding drama, knowing she had equipped Harry with the tools he needed. "Just remember," she said to herself, "if things get too sticky, he can always call for help."

As she drifted further into the cosmic depths, she could almost hear Harry's laughter echoing through the void, mingling with the flames of the Phoenix. Nyx smiled. This was just the beginning. With each passing day, Harry would grow stronger, and she couldn't wait to see how the light of the Phoenix and the shadows of night intertwined in the adventures ahead. The universe was about to witness something spectacular, and Nyx was ready to play her part in this grand tapestry of chaos and magic.

—

In the mystical city of K'un-Lun—home to immortal dragons, mystical warriors, and way too many stairs—a storm was brewing. Shou-Lao, the ancient dragon who usually spent his days in peaceful slumber, woke up with a start. And when an ancient dragon wakes up? Yeah, that's never a good sign.

Shou-Lao cracked open one blazing eye and let out a low, rumbling growl that made the stone walls around him shake. It wasn't morning grumpiness—although, to be fair, even dragons probably aren't morning creatures. No, something cosmic was in the air, and it had yanked him right out of his millennium-long power nap. The problem? The Phoenix Force was back.

The Phoenix was the cosmic equivalent of your weird aunt who showed up at family events unannounced, burned down the kitchen, and called it "cleansing the energy." Shou-Lao knew it well. They had crossed paths more than once across the centuries, and every time the Phoenix got involved, things tended to go... boom.

But this time, things felt different. The Phoenix wasn't just hovering around its newest host like a cosmic bodyguard—it was interested in someone else. Shou-Lao flicked his tail, sending a few unfortunate torches crashing to the ground. Dragons weren't big on subtlety.

The dragon closed his eyes and let his mind drift across time and space. In an instant, he saw her—Jean Grey—a young, red-haired girl who radiated untapped power. The Phoenix burned inside her like a campfire someone forgot to douse. So far, she hadn't leveled any cities or wiped out civilizations (yet), but she was teetering on the edge. Shou-Lao sighed. Kids with cosmic powers—always one bad day away from breaking reality.

But then the dragon sensed someone else. Someone even more interesting.

This kid had chaos written all over him, and not just because he was Loki's son. His aura practically screamed, "I have questionable life choices and I'm ready to make more!" This one—Haris Lokison—was a walking paradox. Not quite mortal, not quite a god, and somehow managing to make friends with the Phoenix without getting vaporized. Impressive.

Shou-Lao grinned, which was not a comforting sight. Think less "happy smile" and more "hungry predator sizing up its next meal." The dragon could feel it—the Phoenix's attention wasn't just on Jean. It was circling this kid too, as if trying to decide whether to recruit him or roast him. And honestly, with Haris, it could go either way.

The boy was a puzzle. Raised by Artemis's Huntresses, trained by gods, and armed with the sort of charm that could talk a vending machine into giving free snacks. He carried a little bit of everything—Asgard's mischief, Olympus's sense of duty, and now, maybe, a spark of the Phoenix's fire. Shou-Lao wasn't sure whether to be impressed or terrified. Probably both.

One thing was clear, though: Haris and Jean's paths were heading straight for K'un-Lun.

The dragon uncoiled himself, his golden scales catching the flickering light. Change was coming, and the kids involved didn't even know what kind of mess they were about to stumble into. That was the thing about destiny—it didn't care if you were ready. It just rolled up, knocked over your lemonade, and dared you to do something about it.

Somewhere in the city, the temple bells rang, signaling to the monks and warriors that something big was about to go down. Shou-Lao settled back into his coils, but his molten eyes stayed open. When these two kids showed up—and they would show up—it was going to get messy. And Shou-Lao? Well, he was more than ready for it.

After all, nothing says "fun" like throwing a trickster godling and a cosmic firebird into the same room and seeing what happens.

---

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