It had all started with a simple, heartfelt declaration from Mother Goose:
"If I don't leave that house for at least a few hours, Hearth, I am going to glue googly eyes to the kitchen cabinets and teach them to sing sea shanties."
Father Hearth, who was halfway through organizing a shelf of enchanted cookbooks, blinked once, closed the tome he was holding, and replied with a nod. "I'll get the boots."
Thus began their unexpected hike.
To be precise, it was Mother Goose's idea of a relaxing trek through nature—a winding trail up a rarely-visited mountain with strange flora, unpredictable weather, and a reputation for being "charmingly peculiar." She claimed the fresh air would do them both good. Father Hearth simply followed, stoic as ever, a quiet pack slung over his shoulder, a canteen of water at his side, and a bundle of emergency marshmallows packed away—because with her, one never knew.
As they ascended, the forest turned... odd. Trees twisted into impossible loops, some with roots growing skyward and branches curling downward like willow chandeliers. Bright orange moss formed spirals on every stone, and more than once, they had to step around puddles that glowed faintly in daylight.
"Oh, look at this one!" Mother Goose chirped, pointing to a large, squat tree with a bulbous trunk. "It looks like a teapot that's been stepped on!"
The tree, as if responding to her mockery, let out a long, mournful wail.
"LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaa…"
It was singing. Opera.
Badly.
"Oh no," Mother Goose muttered, clapping her hands over her ears. "That's not even the right key! I've heard raccoons with better pitch!"
Father Hearth merely offered her a pair of earplugs from his coat pocket, which she took gratefully while muttering threats of reeducating trees in proper vocal technique.
They continued on, climbing steadily. The higher they went, the thinner the air became, and the stranger the world seemed. The sky was painted in hues of lavender and silver, birds chirped backward, and once, a small cloud tried to lick Mother Goose's hat.
Eventually, they reached a rocky outcropping near the summit, where the trees cleared and the horizon opened up before them—valleys and rivers winding through the world below like ribbons in the earth's hair.
Mother Goose placed her hands on her hips and sighed with triumph. "Now that's a view. Worth every off-key aria and backward-blinking squirrel."
Father Hearth simply nodded, looking out over the distance.
And then—
The wind stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Every leaf stilled. The clouds froze. The distant chirping of magical birds was suddenly replaced with a silence so complete, it rang.
Then, the sky turned orange.
Not the soft kind, like at sunset. A deep, ancient orange—like molten gold, like dying embers that remembered when they first learned to burn.
The mountain trembled.
From beyond the horizon, something massive cut across the sky.
Wings of flame, large enough to blanket a city, spread wide and powerful. The creature's body pulsed with heat and light, its feathers glowing like forged steel. It let out a roar—not a scream, not a song, but a roar that shook the bones of the mountain, and perhaps the bones of the world.
And both of them—Father Hearth and Mother Goose—froze.
The beast soared high overhead, trailing fire like a comet as it passed.
The heat hit them seconds later. A wave of warmth, like standing too close to a god's fireplace, swept over them. Mother Goose staggered back a step, shading her eyes.
"By every story I've ever told…" she whispered.
Father Hearth remained still, eyes locked on the firebird's retreating form.
"Phoenix," he said, his voice softer than usual. Almost reverent. "One of the Six Children of Chaos."
Mother Goose slowly turned to him. "That was Phoenix?"
He nodded. "The elder sibling of Leviathan."
They stood there for several minutes, the air still warm, the mountain still humming from the echo of its passing. Far in the distance, the trail of fire was already fading into golden mist.
"Two of them," Mother Goose murmured. "Leviathan near the sea… and now this. In one year."
Father Hearth, his eyes unreadable, said nothing.
Mother Goose glanced over. "You think it's a coincidence?"
"No," he said. "I don't believe in those."
A hush settled between them, heavier than before. The kind of silence that stories didn't want to touch, because they knew it belonged to something older than ink or words.
Then, softly, Mother Goose shook her head and chuckled.
"Well. So much for a relaxing hike."
Father Hearth offered her a canteen.
She took it, drank, and sighed. "Next time, I'm picking the mountain. And it better not sing."
He allowed himself the faintest smile. "Understood."
As they began their descent, the world slowly resumed its rhythm. The trees resumed their warbling. The squirrels blinked forward. And high above, the sky held a faint orange streak like a scar left by a dream.
Neither of them said it aloud, but they both knew—
The world was stirring, and beginning to wake.