It was a rare and quiet afternoon in the city park. The skies were a calm stretch of blue, dappled with clouds that drifted like lazy ships. Children played in the distance, birds sang in the trees, and on a patch of soft grass under the shade of a great oak, a checkered blanket had been laid.
Mother Goose adjusted her wide, feathery hat and beamed as she placed a steaming thermos of tea beside the sandwiches. "I must say, Hearth, it's refreshing to do something *normal* for once. No monster hunts, no talking furniture, no mysterious magical fog swallowing up the pantry."
Father Hearth, seated with impeccable posture and hands folded neatly, inclined his head just slightly. "It is… peaceful."
Mother Goose poured tea into two dainty porcelain cups she had pulled from her seemingly bottomless basket. "We should do this more often. Just you, me, a warm breeze, and absolutely *nothing*—"
And that was precisely when Zephyrion, King of the Fair Folk and Supreme Monarch of Mayhem, cartwheeled past them at full speed.
His cloak was made of glimmering flower petals and silver thread, his crown was askew, and his laughter—bright, unhinged, and musical—echoed across the entire park as he spun with perfect, reckless grace.
"PRAISE THE LEMONS, I AM VICTORIOUS!" he cried, mid-spin.
Mother Goose blinked.
Zephyrion flipped three times in the air, twirled around a tree, and landed in front of their blanket in a triumphant pose, arms spread wide like a performance artist who had just set fire to gravity.
Father Hearth calmly took a sip of his tea.
"Zephyrion," he said evenly.
"My *dearest* friends!" Zephyrion gasped, falling to his knees dramatically before the picnic. "You have caught me in a moment of grand celebration! I have just escaped a duel with the Seven Beekeepers of Doom, and I'm fairly certain one of them was a goat in disguise!"
Mother Goose's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I... you... we are trying to have TEA," she finally managed, gesturing wildly to the peaceful spread now interrupted by a giggling fairy monarch lying across the cucumber sandwiches.
Zephyrion rolled onto his back, staring at the sky. "Yes, and what a lovely afternoon for tea and interdimensional nonsense. You simply must try screaming into a jar sometime—it's *very* therapeutic."
"Do you want a sandwich or not?" she snapped.
Zephyrion gasped. "I thought you'd never ask."
Without hesitation, he plucked a sandwich, took a bite, and immediately burst into tears. "It tastes like maternal affection and mild despair. I love it."
Mother Goose groaned and flopped back on the blanket. "Why do I even try to have a normal day?"
Father Hearth, still perfectly composed, refilled his tea. "This is normal."
She stared at him.
Zephyrion, meanwhile, had climbed halfway up the oak tree and was now attempting to make conversation with a squirrel.
"Oh no," she muttered, burying her face in her hands. "He's going to crown it Queen Acornia again, isn't he?"
"Likely," Father Hearth replied.
And as Zephyrion cackled from the branches above and declared the start of the "Great Nut Festival," Mother Goose sighed and reached for her tea.
"Next time," she said, "I'm picking a more *boring* park."
Father Hearth took another calm sip. "There is no such thing."