The Harvest Festival of Rosewood City was in full swing—streamers waved like banners in the wind, the scent of honey-glazed apples and roasted corn danced through the air, and laughter rippled from every stall and corner. Musicians played fiddles atop barrels, children ran with flower crowns on their heads, and farmers proudly showed off pumpkins the size of wagons.
In the middle of it all was Mother Goose, trying—valiantly, hopelessly—to herd her companions through the chaos.
Gunther, her loyal (and honkingly temperamental) goose familiar, waddled proudly ahead, adorned with a silk bowtie he had definitely stolen from a vendor. Theo, the pint-sized squire of King Croak, marched beside him with a stick held like a sword, his armor clinking—a hodgepodge of bottle caps and curtain rings. And though King Croak himself remained snug in Theo's oversized pocket, his presence was clear by the occasional SQUEEEK of royal proclamation.
"Alright," Mother Goose said, eyeing the booths, "we get a few loaves, some caramel sticks, a bundle of turnips for Mrs. Hawthorn, and then we—"
"HONK!"
Gunther had stopped.
Theo gasped. "Lady Goose, I believe our royal envoy has just made eye contact with nobility."
And indeed, he had.
For standing at the other end of the plaza, flanked by a crowd of gasping admirers and silk-wrapped tail feathers, was King Herbert, the self-proclaimed Monarch of All Peacocks, draped in a flamboyant suit embroidered with emerald thread and gold inlays so reflective they practically screamed.
Beside him, equally dazzling in a more restrained, brooding fashion, stood Scamander Florence, his retainer—a peacock with a sleek monocle, long coat, and the kind of feathered stoicism that could shame an imperial butler.
Mother Goose's eyes narrowed. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," said Herbert, already strutting over with a flash of tail feathers that blinded a passing bard.
"Mother Goose," Herbert declared grandly, "how utterly quaint to see you here. Still dressing for utility, I see."
"Herbert," she replied with thinly veiled hostility, "still mistaking a curtain for a fashion statement, I see."
"I'll have you know this is custom-tailored phoenix silk."
"From which phoenix? One that died of embarrassment?"
Before Herbert could retort, Theo—spotting the opportunity for diplomatic expansion—approached Scamander and the King of Flamingos, who was now lazily inspecting a bouquet of pickled radishes.
"Good sirs!" Theo said, straightening his cap. "I bring greetings from King Croak of the House of the Hearth. I seek an alliance in the name of amphibian-avian relations!"
Scamander blinked once. "You have three buttons on your shirt and none are fastened."
"It is the style of war," Theo replied proudly.
While Theo was negotiating peace treaties with the local feathered elite, Gunther the Goose had wandered toward a particularly radiant flamingo—graceful, tall, with shimmering pink plumes and a flower crown woven with hibiscus.
"Honk?" Gunther offered, flaring his wings just slightly in what could only be described as an attempt at flirtation.
The flamingo fluttered his lashes and responded with a smooth, coy: "Oh my~ Aren't you a bold one."
Gunther honked again—this time with more confidence.
The flamingo chuckled. "You're adorable when you try."
Then, with a wink and a flourish, the flamingo lowered his voice and added, "By the way… I'm a prince. But I do appreciate the attention."
Gunther's honk turned into a horrified *HOOONK*, and he flapped backward into a crate of turnips, his bowtie now hanging limply in dismay.
Meanwhile, the crowd in the square had all but stopped to watch the escalating disaster: a goose attempting to flirt, a small child leading an inter-species summit, and Mother Goose trying not to strangle King Herbert, who was now talking *over* her at every turn.
"Did I mention my newest suit changes color in the moonlight?" Herbert trilled. "Not that you would know about high fashion, of course—"
"I swear on my last teacup, Herbert, if you interrupt me one more time, I will pluck your feathers one by one and turn them into quills for bardic haikus."
"Ah, the language of the bitter! So nostalgic!"
The townsfolk sweat-dropped in unison.
And far above, perched upon a floating bench conjured from petals and laughter, sat Zephyrion, the Fairy King himself, twirling a parasol while sipping tea beside Father Hearth, who nursed a cup of steaming spiced brew.
"Well," Zephyrion said, tilting his head, "this turned out better than expected."
"You caused this," Father Hearth stated plainly.
"I merely nudged the wind," Zephyrion said innocently, "and suggested some migratory adjustments. I thought a little bird gathering would be delightful."
"You caused the goose to flirt with a flamingo prince."
"I was hoping he'd flirt with the peacock. Alas, fate had other plans."
Below them, Gunther attempted to bury himself in a pile of discarded festival hats. Theo was now trying to knight a chicken. Mother Goose was storming off toward the food stalls while still arguing with an ever-squawking Herbert. And the crowd?
They just stood in stunned silence, wondering if they'd all accidentally eaten the hallucinogenic festival mushrooms.
Father Hearth sipped his tea. "They'll talk about this one for a while."
Zephyrion grinned. "Let them. This festival finally has proper chaos."
And in the middle of the town square, where stories were born and sanity forgot to RSVP, the Harvest Festival of Rosewood City continued—with song, laughter, feathers.