Another normal day in the House of the Hearth was, in fact, anything but normal—at least in Mother Goose's opinion.
The morning light spilled through the great stone windows, casting golden beams across the long wooden table. The fireplace crackled steadily, filling the hall with warmth, and the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat drifted through the air. It was all very picturesque, very wholesome—until Mother Goose actually looked at what was happening.
And promptly decided that everyone in this house was mad.
"Hearth. My dear, steady, practical Hearth." She folded her arms, watching the scene unfold before her with an expression of bewildered exasperation. "Would you care to explain why that child is currently wielding a loaf of bread like a battle axe?"
Across the room, a boy no older than ten had indeed taken up a stale baguette, gripping it with the ferocity of a warrior, while another child held a wooden spoon like a rapier.
Father Hearth, seated calmly at the head of the table, did not even look up from sharpening a knife. "They are training."
Mother Goose's eye twitched. "Training for what? The Great Bread Wars of the Future?"
The boy with the baguette let out a fearsome war cry and lunged at his opponent. The wooden spoon clashed dramatically against the hardened crust of bread.
"En garde!" the spoon-wielding child declared.
"For the honor of the kitchen!" the bread-wielder responded.
Mother Goose pinched the bridge of her nose. "Hearth. You must see how this is insanity."
Father Hearth finally looked up, utterly unbothered. "They are learning discipline."
She gawked at him. "With bread."
"It was going stale."
"So you turned it into a weapon?"
Father Hearth simply resumed sharpening his knife. "Better than wasting it."
At that moment, another child ran past the table, completely covered in flour—a small dust storm following their every step as they shrieked, "I AM THE SPIRIT OF THE WIND!"
Mother Goose watched them go, her soul leaving her body.
From the kitchen, a much older child—one of the more responsible ones, allegedly—called out, "We might need more flour. We underestimated the explosion radius this time."
"…Explosion radius," Mother Goose repeated, deadpan.
Father Hearth remained unshaken. "They were making bread."
"What were they making it with, fireworks?"
"Passion."
Mother Goose turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "Hearth. I love you dearly, but sometimes, I fear you are an enabler of chaos."
Father Hearth finally set his knife down, fixing her with his usual calm and unreadable expression. "The house remains standing."
She gestured wildly at the smallest child, who was currently climbing the kitchen shelves like a mountain goat.
Father Hearth followed her gaze. "Then again, I may need to reinforce the cabinets."
Mother Goose let out a long, suffering sigh, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I am surrounded by madmen."
As if to emphasize her point, another crash echoed from the kitchen, followed by a victorious, "THE PIE SURVIVED!"
Father Hearth calmly took a sip of his tea. "As I said. A normal day."
Mother Goose simply collapsed onto the chair beside him, muttering, "I need a stronger drink."