It had only been a few days since Gunther's first semi-successful attempt at a human form—a ragtag mess of feathers, bow ties, and haunted poet energy—but something had changed.
Maybe it was determination.
Maybe it was desperation.
Maybe it was that Mother Goose had threatened to enroll him in the House of Peacocks' finishing school if he didn't start improving.
Whatever the reason, Gunther had made a breakthrough.
And it was glorious.
—
The courtyard of the House of the Hearth was quiet that morning. The sky a soft pastel blue, the garden rustling with wind and the distant hum of a kettle on the fire. Mother Goose had gathered a small crowd—Theo, Scamander Florence (who'd stopped by to deliver fashion notes), and Father Hearth, who stood with a cup of coffee in hand, mostly here for the drama.
And of course, Prince Gideon was visiting—dressed to the nines in an embroidered coral-pink coat with flamingo feathers at the cuffs, carrying a box of fresh pastries, and utterly unaware of what was about to happen.
Mother Goose clapped her wings sharply. "Alright Gunther, let's see it."
Gunther stepped into the center of the courtyard. He was calm. Focused. For once, not honking.
He closed his eyes. Magic shimmered around him like mist, and in a sudden, smooth pulse of light—no feathers exploded, no limbs bent the wrong way—
There he stood.
Gunther.
Human.
Properly.
And impossibly… beautiful.
He was tall—really tall—with a physique sculpted by nature and divine comedy: broad shoulders, lean build, long legs that somehow made his usual waddling air seem elegant. His hair fell in soft waves of snowy white, cascading past his shoulders, framing a striking, classically handsome face with just a touch of mischief in his smirk.
His eyes?
Blue. Not just blue. The kind of blue that made poets throw themselves into oceans and painters weep.
And his voice—when he turned to speak—was a deep, velvety thing that rumbled like distant thunder and melted like dark chocolate on the tongue.
"Did I do it right?" he asked.
Gideon dropped the pastry box.
His knees wobbled.
He blinked twice. Then three more times.
And finally, with the dramatic flair only a prince of flamingos could manage, he clutched his chest and staggered back into Theo—who, bless him, caught him with both arms and mild panic.
"Are you okay, your highness?!" Theo gasped.
"I—" Gideon rasped, his cheeks rapidly turning crimson. "I wasn't ready—he—he's handsome. I wasn't—my legs aren't responding!"
Scamander dropped his monocle. "Oh dear heavens, Gunther actually became a romantic lead."
Even Mother Goose was stunned for a solid five seconds.
"…I hate how impressed I am," she muttered. "But I am."
Father Hearth sipped his coffee. "Told you. I saw it in his wings."
"Did not."
"Did too."
"Shut up."
Gunther walked over to Gideon, leaned down with that stupidly beautiful face, and said, "You okay, Gid?"
Gideon, whose brain had short-circuited and rebooted into mush, gave a tiny, breathy laugh. "I think I fell in love again."
Gunther blinked. Then smiled. "Good."
Theo looked between them and whispered, "Oh no, they're going to be worse now."
—
And they were.
Because now that Gunther had figured out his "true form," Gideon insisted on scheduling formal dates every weekend.
Rose gardens. Balcony dances. Dramatic sonnet readings under moonlight.
Gunther didn't know how to dance.
Or read sonnets.
Or flirt on purpose.
But that didn't stop him from trying—and somehow, impossibly, nailing it in the most charmingly awkward ways.
And every time he smiled that lopsided, golden-hearted grin…
Prince Gideon's legs still almost gave out.