The day had started out lovely—almost sickeningly so.
Gunther and Gideon were out on one of their much-anticipated weekly dates, strolling hand-in-hand through a flower-covered park just on the edge of Rosewood. Spring was in full bloom, petals fell from above like confetti, and the air smelled faintly of lilacs and honey. Gideon had packed a lunch, and Gunther had awkwardly attempted poetry in his handsome human form, which made Gideon laugh so hard he almost fell into a patch of daisies.
They were happy.
It was soft, it was gentle, it was real.
And then he appeared.
—
They noticed him the moment he stepped onto the path ahead.
Not because he did anything grand or terrifying.
No.
It was just the stillness.
A quiet that fell like a blanket.
As if the world itself had gone breathless.
The man—if one could call him that—walked slowly, like he had no hurry, like the concept of time itself did not apply to him. He had the shape of a human but nothing else about him agreed with it. Great antlers, like polished bone, branched upward from his head like a crowned tree, tipped in moss and ancient silver. Behind him, wings stretched wide—not feathered, not scaled, but something in between, vast and old and unknowable.
His eyes were yellow. Slit like a serpent. Calm.
Too calm.
And that smile…
That smile was what stuck with them.
Warm. Amicable. Like the smile of a stranger offering you candy at the edge of a cliff.
He did nothing but walk past them, nod once, and disappear into the woods.
Not a word. Not a glance back.
Yet the very air seemed heavier after his passing.
And both Gideon and Gunther instinctively knew—
They needed to leave.
Now.
—
The walk back was wordless.
Gideon stayed close to Gunther, quiet and contemplative, a hand gripping the other's coat sleeve. When they reached the hotel, Gideon kissed Gunther's cheek and told him to be careful.
Gunther didn't even try to play it cool.
He was already moving.
—
The doors to the House of the Hearth creaked open.
Gunther marched straight into the sitting room where Mother Goose was sipping tea and Father Hearth was finishing off a puzzle of the Grand Infernal Summit.
"Mother. Father. I need to talk to you."
Both looked up.
Mother Goose blinked. "You're home early. You didn't fall into a pond again, did you?"
"No. Worse."
He sat down, took a breath, and began to describe.
The antlers. The wings. The serpentine eyes. The wrongness.
The smile.
Father Hearth did not interrupt. But slowly—very slowly—he set down his mug.
"…Repeat the eyes," he said, quietly.
"Yellow. Slitted. Like a snake."
"Wings?"
"Large. Unnatural. I couldn't tell what they were made of."
"Antlers?"
"Like a tree that bleeds marble."
There was a long pause.
Then Father Hearth leaned back, and his face—so often calm and distant—shifted into something heavy and grim.
"That was Avier," he said at last. "The Fourth."
Gunther blinked. "Fourth what?"
"Fourth child of Chaos," Father Hearth replied. "Avier the Origin. The first to give form to life that walks the land. From his blood, the beasts of claw and fur were born. From his breath, the scaled and creeping. He does not visit lightly."
Mother Goose sat up straighter, eyes narrowing.
"Why would he be wandering near Rosewood?"
"I don't know." Father Hearth's voice was low. "But he usually sleeps. Sleeps for centuries. If he's awake—moving—smiling—"
"Then the land itself might be shifting," Mother Goose muttered, feathers ruffling. "He doesn't smile unless something's about to change."
Gunther's mouth went dry.
"Should I tell Gideon?"
Father Hearth nodded. "Quietly. No need to cause panic. But stay close to him for now. And if Avier ever speaks to either of you—"
"Run?" Gunther guessed.
"Worse," Mother Goose muttered. "Listen."
Gunther blinked.
"What?"
Father Hearth met his eyes.
"If he speaks," he said darkly, "then it means you're part of whatever he's about to set in motion."
And the room fell silent.
Not with fear.
But with warning.
Because one by one, the Children of Chaos were stirring.
And now even the sleeping origin of beasts had walked past them…
Smiling.