“Our ancestors used the Trust Fall rebirth to leap off cliffs,” I say, raising my voice above the phoenix’s unsettled stamping and snorting. “I suggest starting with ten- or fifteen-foot drops, and keep in mind this is a dangerous rebirth. Even if you’re an experienced rider, use caution.”

Farian hates disclaimers, thinks they’re boring. But I’m not going to have some rookie breaking their neck and blaming me for it.

As quietly as possible, I approach the horse’s left shoulder. I keep my voice soft and patient. Most riders would just use constants. They’re with their horse through every death, every life. Feed them a certain apple, whisper a certain word. That’s all it takes for the Ashlords who can afford to own their own horses. It’s a little more difficult when you’re trying to convince a creature you haven’t seen in months to trust you again.

She trembles beneath my fingertips, but she’s quiet when I stand at her side. Still whispering, I start sliding a saddle over her back, fumbling at the buckles that attach the girth on both sides. As I slide forward to work on the bridle, Farian’s moving, too, adjusting his angle. We’ve got instructional videos up for saddles and harnesses, so he never films this part. Our viewers subscribe for the new rebirths, and for Farian’s brilliant production values.

“Trust Fall?” he says, starting to climb down from the tree. “We need to have a conversation about your creative decision making.”

I ignore the dig, knowing the horse will feed off any anger or nerves this early in the connection. She huffs once and settles back into calm.

“What does the mix even do?” Farian asks. “I don’t see anything different about this one.”

“Just keep filming.”

He’s right, though. She looks plain as sand. But that’s the beauty of alchemy and phoenixes: They’re like an ace hidden up a sleeve, magical if you know how to make the trick work. I finish with the saddle and move up to look the sweet thing in the eye. She’s not nervous now. She likes my hands and the sound of my voice.

“Let’s do this,” I say, eyes back on Farian. “What do you say, Catcher?”

Farian stands over his tripod and signals for me to say the name again. Not my most creative work. He looks annoyed that I didn’t consult with him first, but names matter with phoenixes. If Farian knew what kind of stunt I’m about to try to pull off, he’d understand why it’s the perfect name for the horse.