The granite bites into Anya’s calloused palms as she cradles it, tracing each craggy ridge and valley. Dust specks waltz in the sunlight streaming through her dingy studio window – a silent ballet oblivious to her inner discord. The streets of Harmonia bustle outside, awash in swirling hues of emotion: gleaming gold joy, brooding storm cloud anger, vermillion passion. But Anya stands immune in her monochrome solitude.
The Discordant Symphony – that writhing monstrosity born from Harmonia’s unchecked feelings – had long ago devoured Anya’s symphony of laughter and love whole. Her voice, once clear and true, was now muted to a timid whisper. Her heart, so full of music, left echoingly empty.
With every touch of the rough-hewn stone, another whisper stirs. Ancient, patient, resolute – the living breath of the granite itself. Speaking of enduring creation where emotions are fleeting puffs of color on the wind. Anya presses her ear to it, sensing primal constancy and wheeled momentum where her human melodies had only shown frailty.
Purpose sparks hot determination in her veins. Seizing her chisel, taking on a life of its one feverishly bites into the granite that seems to mold its new shape without effort, as if it is anticipating Anya’s strokes of the chisel. Steady clinks underscore the stone’s whispered rhythm as Anya peels back inert layers to uncover what waits within. Dust sprites gather, twirling with interest around her pounding hands.
Shapes emerge from rigid blocks – first an angled wing, then an arching crest. The creature bound within seems to flex and strain against its prison as Anya chips urgently away. Her tempo and its rise together in resonant harmony. A duet composed of ringing blows and shaking stones. At last, Anya steps back, breathless, to behold the fully unfurled form – a proud phoenix, wings spread, frozen mid-ascension from imagined flames that can’t contain its immutable spirit. Anya’s living screams against the deathly Discordant din.
She may stand solitary, but the fire of creation forgotten has been re-sparked from primordial embers. Anya lifts her chisel like a torch as the phoenix’s stony shriek echoes back from the walls. Let the city streets flood with their fickle human colors. Here in the dusty studio, steadfast tones resound as Anya composes her bold new song.
The ecstatic music swelling inside Anya is suddenly pierced by screams outside. She rushes to peer through the foggy glass into the alley below. A tide of churning shadow floods the narrow lane, trapping a couple against a wall. The inky mass swirls violently, cycling with nightmarish faces. More of the Discordant Symphony’s monstrous spawn.
Instinctively, Anya flew down rusted stairs still clutching her chisel. Hurling herself between a trapped couple and the shadows, she raised her rough tool, singing out a clear, strong note of defiance. The stone phoenix flashed a bright fire into the looming death clouds,
“ I wasn’t expecting that” she thought to herself.
As the energy of the phoenix reached the core of the discordant clouds Anya stood in amazement as it retreated from her in fear. The same cloud that stole her family and crippled her for so long was now retreating in fear from her. Hissing at her as she pierced the cloud with a surprising song, emboldened she let her song didn’t hold back anymore, her song reaching heights she never attempted before, each note a hammer blow shimmering hot with harmonic power. The sword-edged tune slices shadows into swirling scraps. For the first time since her loss, joyful, courageous colors bloom bright around Anya again in answer to her heart’s blazing fire.
Help came too late – the man slumps suddenly back as the oily shade teeth release him. The surviving woman wails in anguish over her husband. Slashing furious chords through the air, voice cracking with unleashed power, she can do no more than drive the sated hell beasts back as they abandon their feast.
Anya drops to her knees beside the fallen man, hands pressing desperately into spreading crimson. But only sickly discord echoes back from his ebbing heartbeat. Frantically scanning the area for anyone who could her, feeling helpless as she did as a child when she lost her parents.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she whispered to the woman.
Activated by Anya’s pain, the granite phoenix flashes again before her eyes, flame changing from extinguishing to kindling. Hardening herself, Anya guides the weeping woman away with a muted murmur of reassurance. As the alley lights begin flashing blue and red, Anya stealthily pulls her little wheeled cart from a shadowed nook. Gently but swiftly, she drapes the bloodied man upon it and makes away unseen through the gathering chaos. Her feet turn unerringly back towards the dusty studio even as her mind spins unmoored with uncertainty over what must come next…what may yet be possible with this fire now lit within.
Opening her studio door, the etched phoenix gleamed in the dying light. Maneuvering the cart inside, her strange cargo left a morbid trail through the dancing dust. The man lies perfectly still upon her worktable, the granite bird seeming to arch watchfully over him. With reverent steps, Anya circles the table, candlelight guttering across ashen features. She lifts her chisel and begins to sing once more – soft and low, a gentle threnody coaxing lost souls to distant shores. Each note flickers warm and bright as a winging ember as she works through the deepening night.
The pale dawn sees her melody exhausted and trembling hands stilled. Anya waits breathlessly beside the mysterious emerging shape she’s unveiled. But as sunlight stretches slowly over cooling flesh, no miraculous fiery bloom stirs the man’s still chest. Only hushed silence answers back. defeated, Anya finally turns away. But a single sharp gasp suddenly pierces the quiet studio. Whirling back, she sees the carved wings now pulsing urgent crimson along every engraved feather. The phoenix comes alive before her disbelieving eyes, burning hypnotic beauty rooted in death. Fear and wonder crash together in Anya’s heart like cymbals clashing.
Those blood-glowing wings stretch, flames racing to engulf the motionless man. Anya staggers away, blinded. A rush of scorching heat rakes past, forcing her to her knees. Then a horrifying screech tears through the electrified air, ripping open some abyssal portal no human ear should witness. When at last Anya lifts her head, blackened scorch marks scar the worktable where her impossible miracle had lain. Both phoenix and man have vanished without a trace. No lingering music or light softens the shadows now creeping back into her world. Only the untouched granite original remains to mutely echo the unbelievable impossibilities witnessed this night.
Head spinning, Anya can only watch ashen flakes dance mournfully in the rising dawn. But that eldritch shriek still rings inside her mind – containing anguish…and something disturbingly like twisted triumph. Shivering despite the newborn sunlight as that unearthly cry seems to echo back from somewhere terribly far away, this tale is anything but over.
Chara Ellice Fisher 
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