It was a strange thing, how the world sometimes conspired to bring old souls together.
There had been no letter sent, no invitation delivered by owl or magical vine, and certainly no pre-arranged tea schedule. Yet somehow, Father Hearth, Mother Goose, and the Fairy King Zephyrion found themselves in the same forgotten park that they visit—a place of creaking swings, overgrown hedges, and a fountain that hadn't burbled in decades.
The park was silent, save for the rustle of wind and the occasional chirp of a bird that clearly hadn't gotten the memo about the mood. They sat together on a curved stone bench beneath a crumbling arbor wrapped in thorned ivy and blue roses that bloomed only in shade.
What was more remarkable than the coincidence of their meeting was the atmosphere: quiet, serious, heavy with thought. Even Zephyrion, who was rarely still, rarely somber, sat with his hands folded in his lap, wings folded tight, his usually twinkling eyes dulled to a dim starlight.
It was Mother Goose who broke the silence first, adjusting her shawl and letting out a breath that trembled at the edges.
"Two of them," she murmured. "In one season. Two of the Six."
Father Hearth nodded once, his hands clasped in front of him, as if the warmth in them might protect against the weight of what they were discussing. "Leviathan... near the port cities. Phoenix over the mountain."
"I remember Phoenix," Zephyrion said quietly, voice unusually low and clear. "she came to my woods once. Burned a clearing into glass just by breathing near it. That was centuries ago. But now…"
He looked up, his expression unreadable.
"I saw another."
Mother Goose blinked, leaning in. "Another?"
Zephyrion gave a slow nod. "Not Phoenix. Not Leviathan. She came near my realm—flew over the Fools meadow, as though she had no care for our boundaries. A streak of burning white. Daylight where night should be. My trees wilted under her gaze."
"Who was she?" Father Hearth asked, though the calm in his voice had stiffened.
"She looked like a woman made of light," Zephyrion replied. "No face. Just… brilliance. Blinding. Screamed like a dying star. And her scream—it wasn't rage. It was searching."
Mother Goose's eyes widened slightly. "Yang."
Zephyrion looked at her.
"In the mortal tongue," she clarified. "Fifth of the Six. The Personification of Day. The Banshee of Dawn."
"She passed over every fae kingdom," Zephyrion said, his voice tight. "Ignored our wards. Shattered illusions just by being near. My couriers are terrified. Some still haven't returned."
Silence fell again. The three of them sat still, each feeling the weight of old legends rising from deep sleep.
"I've heard reports," Mother Goose said slowly. "Phoenix... flying over cities. Always watching. Never descending. His gaze lingers. Like she's trying to remember someone's face."
"Leviathan has resurfaced multiple times," Father Hearth added. "Three different harbors. Five sightings. Never an attack. Just… rising. Staring. Diving."
"They're searching," Zephyrion said.
The word hung in the air like smoke from a snuffed flame.
"But for what?" Mother Goose asked, voice a whisper.
Father Hearth looked down at his hands, the firelight in his gaze dim but thoughtful.
"Or for who."
A long pause followed.
"They don't move without reason," Zephyrion said. "They're chaos, yes—but they're not aimless. If the Children are walking again, it means something has shifted."
Mother Goose shivered and pulled her shawl tighter.
"I've seen signs in the stories," she said. "Old tales waking. Prophecies written in invisible ink beginning to appear again in the margins of books that haven't spoken in centuries."
"There's something coming," Father Hearth murmured. "And they feel it before we do."
Zephyrion stood, brushing off his cloak, face stern.
"I'll reinforce the meadow," he said. "Warn the eastern realms. If another of the Six appears—"
"We'll face it," Father Hearth said.
"Together," Mother Goose added.
Zephyrion gave a short nod, then—true to his nature—cartwheeled into a portal of swirling stardust with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
As the wind picked up, Mother Goose turned to Father Hearth, her voice softer now.
"Do you think it's beginning?"
Father Hearth stared at the horizon.
"I think," he said slowly, "that the world is waking up."
Together, they sat a little longer in the overgrown quiet, two old souls watching a world shift on its axis. And somewhere, far above, a white streak crossed the sky again—burning like the edge of dawn wailing.