Another few months had passed since Gunther's shockingly successful meeting with Silas, King of the Flamingos and walking embodiment of Haute Couture. Since then, things had become... busier. Gideon had sent a dozen love letters. Gunther had accidentally set off a magical fireworks display trying to write back. There had been a runway debut, a flamingo-themed gala, and even a brief political crisis involving a fashion duel. But that was then.
Now?
Now was a different sort of challenge.
Mother Goose had taken it upon herself to teach Gunther something vitally important to his future as a noble consort: how to assume a human form.
After all, all feathered royals eventually learned the art. The flamingos could do it. The swans. The storks. Even the lesser-known pigeon barons of the east had managed a decent pair of legs and a working understanding of pants. But Gunther?
Gunther had never done it before.
And frankly?
It was going horribly.
—
"Okay, Gunther. Focus."
Mother Goose stood at the center of the glade behind the House of the Hearth, the sunlight filtering through the trees, a soft breeze carrying the scent of grilled mushrooms from Father Hearth's latest snack experiment. She was calm. Collected. Only slightly twitching.
Gunther, meanwhile, was concentrating as if trying to hatch a boulder. His wings were tucked close, his feathers fluffed out. Magical energy swirled around him in a glittering haze. The ground rumbled slightly.
And then—
POP.
A cloud of feathers exploded.
Standing (barely) in the middle was what could generously be called a man-shaped thing. Gunther had legs… sort of. Long and weirdly knobby. His arms were bent at impossible angles. His head still had his beak, which sat awkwardly atop what should have been a jawline. And he was, inexplicably, still wearing his crooked bow tie.
"Gunther…" Mother Goose said slowly. "What… is that?"
"HONK." Gunther replied with unfiltered, feathered panic.
Theo, who had been watching from a safe distance with a notebook in hand and eyes wide, whispered, "Is he supposed to have knees that bend both ways?"
"No," Mother Goose muttered through clenched beak. "No, he is not."
Gunther wobbled dangerously. One of his eyes was on the side of his head. The other was somewhere near his chin.
"Okay," Mother Goose said, clapping her wings. "Reset. Now."
POP.
Another explosion of feathers.
Now Gunther looked… closer. He had arms. Legs. Even fingers! Unfortunately, he also had wings still sprouting out of his back, mismatched eyes, and hair that looked like a damp mop of straw that had lost a fight with a lightning storm. His nose? Still suspiciously beak-shaped.
"Progress!" Theo offered with cautious optimism. "He almost looks like a weird wizard who got turned into a goose."
"That's exactly what we're trying to reverse," Mother Goose muttered, rubbing her temple. "He's supposed to go from goose to man, not the goose sorcerer halfway through his tragic villain arc."
Gunther tried to take a step.
He immediately fell over.
"HONK—!" he cried as he rolled down the small hill and into a berry bush.
Mother Goose screamed into her wing.
Theo, bless his earnest little squire heart, scrambled down to help, only to also fall into the bush.
There was rustling. There were more honks.
From the porch, Father Hearth watched with a glass of lemonade, unbothered, already betting five cookies with Zephyrion (who had conveniently stopped by again) that Gunther would spontaneously turn into a swan by accident before sunset.
Zephyrion sipped his tea. "You know, he's trying really hard."
"He just tried to flirt with a tree."
"…And he's trying very hard."
—
By evening, Gunther had made a breakthrough.
He managed a stable human form—legs, arms, face, bow tie still present, and even clothes! (Though he had somehow conjured a frilly poet's shirt and embroidered pants with feathers sewn into the hems.)
Was he handsome?
No.
Was he horrifying?
Also no.
He was…
Gunther, but human.
Kind-eyed, tall-ish, slightly hunched, with a shock of white-blond hair and a proud, crooked grin.
Mother Goose stared at him. Then nodded, slowly. "Well… you're still ugly."
Gunther beamed. "Honk!"
"But you'll do."
And deep in the bushes, Gideon—who had been hiding the entire time with Silas's opera glasses—let out a soft sigh of relief.
The prince was proud. Confused. Alarmed by the pants, maybe.
But proud.