Later That Night – The Planning Table

The castle halls were usually hushed at night, filled with the gentle clink of silver forks and the low lull of noble gossip.

But not tonight.

In a forgotten supply closet tucked deep in the west wing—recently commandeered and now proudly declared a war room—the usual calm had been replaced with the sound of scribbling, snickering, and the occasional strategic crayon snap.

Maps were tacked to broom handles. Guard rotations sketched beside delivery schedules. Someone had even labeled the noble bath timetable with skulls.

Mira sat cross-legged on a floor cushion, her once-blue skin now faded to the faintest ghost of color. Her eyes gleamed beneath the flickering lantern light, intent and alight with purpose.

Charlotte, standing over her, unfurled a parchment with the flourish of a magician revealing their grand trick.

"Operation Prickleberry," she announced, "is a go."

Mira tilted her head inquisitively.

Charlotte leaned in, grinning. "We replace Lady Theodora's favorite tea leaves with crushed prickleberry flowers. Harmless, of course. Except for the side effect—her tongue turns blue and her voice croaks like a toad for three hours."

She beamed. "Dignified, no?"

Mira squinted, then tapped her chin and signed quickly.

Too obvious. She'll suspect us.

Charlotte deflated. "True. And she is vindictive when soggy."

She slumped against a bucket and sighed. "Well then, Commander Mira. What do you propose?"

Mira's eyes twinkled.

She seized a pencil and, with furious strokes, drew a crude chair—specifically the velvet-cushioned monstrosity the Grand Chamberlain used during council meetings. Then she sketched a pouch beneath the seat. A cord. And… feathers.

Charlotte leaned in, breath catching. "Is that a delayed feather bomb?"

Mira nodded solemnly.

Charlotte stared at her like one might regard a divine revelation.

"You," she whispered, reverently, "are my soul twin."

And just like that, Operation Velvet Rooster was born.

The two conspirators hunched together in sacred silence, mapping chaos in crayon, giggling into their sleeves as the war room's lone rat looked on, bearing silent witness to an act of royal rebellion.

The Aftermath

The next council meeting was going as expected—dull, perfumed, full of self-important throat-clearing.

Until the Grand Chamberlain rose, cleared his throat, and opened a scroll to deliver a missive.

Click.

Thrum.

BOOM.

Feathers—enchanted to cackle like chickens—erupted from beneath his seat in a glorious, swirling explosion. They clung to wigs. They floated in soup. One lodged itself neatly atop the crown prince's nose.

The Grand Chamberlain himself stood frozen, his powdered wig rocketing upward to become a grotesque ornament dangling from the chandelier.

Mira, seated demurely behind the Queen, accepted the handkerchief Charlotte passed her. She pressed it to her face with impeccable timing.

To cover her laughter.

Charlotte, meanwhile, sat prim as a portrait, sipping her tea with exaggerated grace.

The Queen glared at them both.

She said nothing.

But the twitch of her lip suggested she was counting to ten.

That evening, as the moon filtered in through dusty glass panes, Elias passed the so-called war room.

He paused.

Maps on the walls. Traps in half-assembly. Inkwells tipped over. Sticky fingers smudged with jam and strategy.

He didn't step in.

Didn't scold.

Because he understood—as Mira had understood in the training yard.

This was not just mischief.

It was resistance. Recovery. Rebellion wrapped in laughter.

Their way of declaring:

We're still here. And we are not afraid.