I woke up to the feeling of tiny hands poking my cheek and the soft, lisping call of “Mama… mamaaa…” in my ear. My eyes blinked open to find the sweetest sight imaginable — a little silver-haired, silver-eyed imp of a girl with a green collar and a crystal pendant, her little horns gleaming in the morning light and those soft, silver dragon wings fluttering on her back. White pajamas, bedhead, and the proudest grin you ever saw. “Morning, mama,” she chirped.

“Morning, darling,” I managed between a yawn big enough to swallow the sun.

Before I could even stretch, she grabbed my hand and started tugging me through our morning routine — one we’ve had since she was still in diapers. First stop: bath time. A proper mama-daughter bubble bath. She giggled like mad when I washed her hair, splashing water everywhere. Then came dressing time — her in one of her precious frilly white dresses (because my little lady insists she must “look like a princess always”), and me in whatever wasn’t wrinkled beyond salvation.

We did each other’s hair after that — I braided hers in the royal style, just like Queen Aoibheann’s, and she “helped” braid mine, which mostly meant getting her claws tangled in my curls. Then breakfast — fairy pancakes, of course, because she refuses anything less. We laughed, we ate, and for a fleeting moment, life was perfect.

When she finished, she leapt into my arms, wings fluttering uselessly — she’s still learning to fly — and I carried her outside. That’s when the smell hit me. Then came the mewling. And the kitten claws. And—

I woke up.

For real this time.

I was curled on my side around Crystal, just like a mother silver dragon curling around her hatchling — or so my own mother once told me they did. The clock said half past eight. Late, even for a Saturday. The heat was already rising, and my room felt like a bread oven. Crystal squirmed and mewling, “mama, mama,” softly, her claws kneading my side. A whiff told me all I needed to know — either the heat or a full diaper had her fussy. I sighed, scooped up my little snowball, and floated out of the bedroom, trying to piece together what exactly happened last night.

Last thing I remember clearly was being dragged into the day shift’s shared locker— human-sized, mind you — and then… fog. Just fog. I suspect there might’ve been a hazing ritual involved, courtesy of my “adorable” subordinates, but the details were mercifully fuzzy.

Without thinking, I floated into the spare room. I don’t know why — habit, instinct, maybe the smell of baby powder in the air — but I nearly dropped Crystal when I saw it. My storage room, my glorious cluttered sanctuary of boxes and old uniforms, had been transformed into a nursery. A proper one. Crib, changing vanity, wallpaper with pink nursery prints… the whole shebang.

I stared. “Oh for the love of Lady… what have they done?”

Then the memories trickled back. The girls had dragged me and Crystal to the Market Grove Bazaar — that sprawling, half-orchard, half-market monstrosity. They shopped like bandits, I carried their spoils like a pack mule, and Dazzle lectured me on baby care the entire time.

My recollection was cut short by Crystal’s rising wail — and then the smell. Between the dirty diaper and the glue off the new wallpaper, I didn’t know which was worse. Poor thing was probably half choking on the fumes. “All right, all right, Mama’s got you,” I said, floating to the vanity.

Yes, the vanity, not a normal changing table. The girls apparently thought “ordinary” wasn’t good enough for my little princess.

I laid Crystal down and opened the diaper. Saints preserve me, it was the foulest thing I’d ever seen — and I’ve worked dispatch during the summer at Schwarzrauchgasse. I dumped it into the pail, gagged a bit, and reached for a clean one. Then froze.

Could I do this?

A flicker of memory — the girls making me “practice” last night, changing Crystal a dozen times for “training.” Wonderful. Four tries later, I still couldn’t get the new one on straight, but Crystal didn’t seem to mind. She cooed and kicked her little legs, happy to be clean and free.

Then I remembered my dream — the one with the bubble bath — and smiled. “How about a real bath this time, my little snowball? Just you and Mama.”

She chirped mama happily.

Good enough for me.

The bubble bath, as it turned out, did not go according to plan. In hindsight, it was probably a mistake — one of those ideas that sounds darling in your head and turns into a miniature disaster the moment you try it.

I carried Crystal into the bathroom and set her on the floor while I checked the gauge on my rooftop water tank. The water was perfect today, though. I twisted the tap and began filling my “bathtub” — you know the, repurposed human-sized china soup bowl I mentioned in chapter 1? Don’t laugh. It’s elegant, compact, and was on clearance.

While it filled, I rummaged for the pot of bubble bath salts I kept in the medicine cabinet. I bought a human-sized box years ago and still haven’t made it halfway through — says something about both my schedule and the size of the tub. A pixie’s luxury, truly.

When I turned around, Crystal was sitting on the tile, staring at me with those huge silvery eyes, her tail swishing expectantly. I smiled and tossed a few of the glittering salts into the water. The moment the bubbles began to rise, she lit up — cooing, chirping, claws fluttering in the air. My heart practically melted. See? I thought smugly. Mother of the year, right here.

Then I tried to put her in.

It’s still unclear what, precisely, offended her — the heat, the bubbles, or the entire concept of water — but the second her scales touched it, she shrieked bloody murder. Wings flared, tiny claws everywhere, and frightened cries of mama. I swear she nearly scalped me. I pulled her out, heart pounding, and she clung to my chest, shaking. Took me a solid two minutes to get her calm enough to whimper instead of howl.

We tried again. And again. And again.

By the fifth attempt, after the water had cooled to merely lukewarm and my nerves were in tatters, she finally let me lower her in. She gave me a look that said, “I’m doing this under protest, woman,” but she stayed put. Good enough.

I had no idea what to do next. So I grabbed a soft brush and started gently scrubbing her scales, muttering nonsense baby talk the whole time. Yes, I heard myself. Yes, it was mortifying. I’m a sergeant, for the Moon’s sake, not a nanny.

Still, after about half an hour after I started filling up the tub, something miraculous happened: she relaxed. The whimpering stopped. She even started batting at the bubbles, her little claws slicing through them like snowflakes. Note to self — buy bath toys. Or better yet, check if the girls already bought a crate of them, which seems more likely.

When we finally climbed out, she was squeaky clean and smiling again. I wrapped her in a towel and praised her like she’d just saved the world. She giggled and pawed at the air, all proud of herself. I couldn’t help but laugh too as I towelled off, threw on my old bathrobe — the one that’s more hole than fabric at this point — and floated us back toward the nursery.

And miracle of miracles, I managed to get her diaper on correctly this time. Turns out if I lay her on her stomach first, I can loop it around her stubby tail without the whole ordeal turning into a wrestling match. She even stayed still! I may have congratulated myself aloud, and she giggled, like she agreed.

Then she started whimpering again — pawing at my arm, little tummy rumbling — and right on cue, mine did too.

“Well, there’s no mystery there,” I sighed. “We’re both hungry. Come on, my snowflake — let’s get some numnums.”

I floated downstairs, bleary but determined, to the parlor and then the dining room—and stopped dead.

Sitting there, bold as brass in the middle of my dining room, was a high chair. Not just any high chair, either—pastel pink, complete with a tail gap cut neatly into the backboard. Someone, apparently, had decided that even dragon babies needed bespoke furniture.

I stared at it for a good five seconds before muttering, “My subordinates have gone completely off the deep end.”

Still, I sighed and plopped Crystal into it. Yes, plopped. And yes, I’m aware of the irony, given how I’ve been doting on her like the dotty mother I never signed up to be. She fussed a little, wings twitching, clearly displeased at being separated from me. I tried my best “sweetest voice,” which probably came out more like a tired kindergarten teacher. “Mama will be right back, darling,” I promised, then ducked into the kitchen.

The sight that greeted me there nearly gave me hives.

My tiny kitchen was a disaster zone. The sink overflowed with dishes, the counter buried under takeaway bags and cardboard boxes emblazoned with “Darraod’s.” The air reeked faintly of hummus and grilled peppers. And there it was—that twitch, that spark of righteous fury. They’d ordered takeout last night, eaten like pigs, and left the place looking like a battlefield.

“Airheads,” I muttered, arms crossed. “Absolute, certifiable bimbos, every one of them.”

It took a minute for the rage to simmer down, long enough for me to remember why I’d come in here in the first place—food for Crystal. I pried open the floor hatch and dropped through to the pantry below.

Now, before you look at me funny, yes, my pantry’s in the basement. Where else am I supposed to keep human-sized food? The ceilings upstairs are barely tall enough for me, never mind a crate of apples. Plus, the basement’s cool—good for storage and terrible for bare feet. I shivered as I fluttered down, wings folding tight as I surveyed the shelves.

Not much down here. A few strawberries, some apple slices, the rest of bubble bath salts (only place I could the rest of the box), a cucumber, and—oh. A jar I didn’t remember buying.

Curious, I fluttered closer. A chubby golden dragon wyrmling grinned from the label beneath the words: “Goldie’s Baby Carnivore Food — Your wyrmling, puppy, kitten, or orc’s first meal!”

“Of course,” I sighed. “They would think of everything.”

I turned it over and checked the ingredients, heart sinking—then relaxing when I spotted the word meatfruit at the top of the list. Thank the Moon. Fey folk may be many things, but carnivores we are not. Not when everything with fur and feathers can hold a conversation. Meatfruit, though? That’s fair game—literally. It grows on trees in New Mountainheart, tastes like steak, and doesn’t complain about it.

Still, the jar was massive. Took me ages to pry it open—tiny pixie versus human-sized lid. I eventually gave up and used a human-sized butter knife as a crowbar. With a grunt of triumph, I scooped some of the reddish goop into a bowl, then hovered back up toward the kitchen.

From the dining room came Crystal’s soft mewling. I peeked through the door to reassure her—and stopped.

For a moment, with the sunlight slanting across her face, she looked exactly like the Crystal from my dream: same tiny horns, same silvery hair, same drowsy, trusting eyes. The resemblance hit me so hard I nearly dropped the spoon. I caught myself smiling instead.

“All right, my little dream dragon,” I murmured. “Breakfast is served.”

I floated in, bowl in hand, and Crystal’s head popped up instantly. She sniffed the air, eyes lighting up like twin moons. The second she saw the bowl, she started chirping and wriggling, claws tapping the tray.

“Patience, snowflake,” I warned, settling into a chair.

What followed was exactly what you’d expect when feeding a hungry wyrmling—or a toddler with scales. More food hit the tray, the floor, and me than ever made it to her mouth. She smeared the goop on her face like war paint, burbled proudly, and tried to hand me her spoon three times—handle first, of course.

And yet… I couldn’t be mad. She looked so pleased with herself, so purely happy, that I just laughed and wiped her chin. And mine. And the table.

I’d just finished cleaning her up when the doorbell rang.

Curious (and slightly wary), I scooped Crystal into my arms and floated to the door. I opened it—and found myself face to face with Dazzle, grinning ear to ear, holding the chubbiest, pink-haired pixie baby I’d ever seen.

“Hayo, boss!” she chirped. “Thought we’d drop by, see how you and little Crystal are settling in! And let my Rosebud meet her new playmate before we hit the pool.”

She wiggled the pink pixie in her arms, who gurgled adorably.

Before I could respond, a chorus of voices called, “Don’t forget about us!” from behind her. I leaned to one side and spotted the rest of my day shift girls—every one of them dressed like they were headed to the beach, arms stacked high with boxes and bags.

“We figured we’d hang out at your place before the pool opens,” Dazzle added cheerfully. “You do have beachfront property, after all!”

“…Wait,” I said slowly. “What?”

I looked past them—and there it was. Beyond the park path that was technically my street, shimmering under the morning sun, was a brand new pool. Not just a pool, a lake. Concrete, enchantment, and hubris all rolled into one.

“Magical engineering,” I muttered weakly. “Of course.”

My awe was short-lived. The girls immediately started giggling and whispering about my bathrobe.

Before I could even close the door, they surged past me in a whirlwind of laughter, perfume, and swimwear, babbling about giving me a makeover as they dragged me bodily inside.

Everything after that was a pink-scented blur. One moment, I had Crystal nestled safely in my arms; the next, she’d been confiscated by my subordinates and passed around like a new fashion accessory. Traitor that she is, she didn’t even protest—just cooed and giggled while they fawned over her. I’m not saying it hurt my feelings, but… it did sting a bit.

Before I could reclaim my dignity—or, gods forbid, my robe—they were on me. My bathrobe was whisked away with an appalling lack of ceremony, and the girls gasped like they’d just unearthed a rare gemstone. Apparently, my physique “had potential.” Their tone made it sound like a home renovation project.

I was barely sputtering protests when vines—actual vines!—coiled around my wrists and ankles. “Came prepared for this eventuality,” one of them chirped, producing those dreadful traveling vanity cases that could fit an entire beauty salon in a purse. I knew then that my fate was sealed. I hadn’t even had breakfast yet.

For fifteen eternal minutes, I endured the worst sort of pampering imaginable. Anna and Sparkle hauled down my bedroom mirror to make an impromptu salon. I was massaged, polished, buffed, lotioned, filed, painted, powdered, perfumed, and braided within an inch of my sanity. By the end, I looked less like a sergeant and more like a debutante who’d wandered into the wrong ball.

My only consolation was that Crystal and Dazzle’s little Rosebud were playing happily together on the carpet. The girls had set them up with toys from Crystal’s nursery, and the two were gurgling and batting at them under alternating supervision. Dazzle, at least, I understood—maternal instinct and all that. The others, though? I’m fairly certain some of them think “childcare” means carrying a handbag.

The grand finale was the Carewell Bay bikini—pink, frilled, and criminally small. They called it “fashionable.” I called it a war crime. Too drained to resist, I let them dress me like a show-pony and braced myself for the laughter.

Except… there wasn’t any. There were gasps. Oohs. Ahhs. I dared a look in the mirror. What looked back wasn’t Sergeant Tilly Bramblethorn. She’d vanished, replaced by someone soft-skinned, bright-eyed, and ten years younger. They’d given me the full treatment—green nails with pink flowers, silky skin, my hair braided Rapunzel style, and a face painted to royal standards. I sighed. That was it, then. The ritual complete. Sergeant Bramblethorn was gone. I was one of them now. Tilly. Initiate of the Cult of Glitter and Gossip.

Apparently, they noticed my despair, because Anna promptly shoved Crystal in my face. I smiled despite myself. They’d dressed her too, the little imp—pink one-piece, frilly skirt, the works. She chirped proudly. Traitor number two.

Dazzle appeared next with salvation in the form of a plate of donuts and a cup of coffee. I hadn’t even noticed the twelve boxes of pastries or the crate of coffee they’d smuggled in. I accepted, naturally. One must cling to dignity where one can.

Then came the questions—how was Crystal settling in, did she sleep through the night, what was her favorite toy—and the parade of boxes and bags being stacked around us. It was only when they started unwrapping ribbons and waving rattles that I realized the truth.

This wasn’t a friendly visit.

It was a baby shower.

For me.

And Crystal.

Apparently, the girls had spent the whole morning at Market Grove Bazaar, shopping for gifts for Crystal and me. How sweet, right? Except I know my subordinates. There was an agenda. They weren’t just buying presents — they were bribing. Bribing Crystal into accepting them as her “aunties,” and bribing me into joining their glittery sisterhood of giggling, gossiping pixies.

Crystal, of course, made out like a bandit. Toys, blankets, teething charms, plush wyrmlings — enough to outfit a nursery twice over. I even spotted a few items that looked suspiciously like Rosebud’s hand-me-downs. Dazzle swore they were “barely used,” which in fairy terms means “chewed once and forgotten.”

As for me, I got a few “tasteful” accessories — code for cheap but sparkly — and a handful of decorative trinkets for my parlor. To their credit, it did look a little less like a disaster zone afterward. We sat together for a while, the girls flitting in and out of the room, chatting, fussing over the babies, sipping their coffee. It was… oddly nice.

Eventually, I pried the truth out of them about last night. Apparently, after I collapsed from exhaustion, they carried Crystal and me to bed and tiptoed out “so as not to wake me.” I didn’t buy it for a second. Still, I managed to guilt Sparkle and Buttercup into cleaning my kitchen, and the rest into rearranging my parlor until it looked halfway civilized. Judging by their laughter and enthusiasm, I suspect they enjoyed redecorating far more than they let on.

The conversation drifted, as it always does, to husbands, boyfriends, fashion, and pregnancies. I was about to tune it out when I noticed something peculiar. Somewhere in the middle of the gossip, the girls had all decided to strip down to their bikinis — solidarity, I suppose. That’s when I noticed Sparkle, Anna, Buttercup, and Lilly all had visible baby bumps. Even Dazzle looked like she might be expecting again.

Well, that explained the maternal fussing. Either they were genuinely excited to be Crystal’s “aunties,” or she just triggered some kind of instinctive bimbo-maternal reflex. Hard to tell with that lot.

Beyond the cooing and baby talk, the main topic of gossip was the rumor that the royal family might attend the pool opening. Personally, I couldn’t care less about court gossip — but sitting there with the sun pouring through my windows, surrounded by laughter, it was hard not to feel… something. Nostalgia, maybe. A reminder of a youth I never quite had time to miss.

Then the Alteberg clock tower struck ten, and suddenly the parlor exploded into motion. You’d think the bells were a battle alarm. The girls shot to their feet, wings buzzing, darting about like sugar-addled hummingbirds. Bags were packed, towels rolled, snacks gathered. Anna zipped upstairs, came back with a coin purse, dropped it into a new handbag she’d bought me, and shoved it into my arms. Buttercup emerged from the kitchen triumphantly declaring she had “snacks and wyrmling chow ready.”

I blinked, still trying to process the chaos. “What in Oberon’s name is going on?”

Dazzle looked up from where she was scooping both babies into her arms. “The pool’s opening, boss! There’s an obligatory pool party!” she said, as if it were a sacred duty handed down from on high.

That did it. The soldier in me stirred. I snatched Crystal back into my arms, straightened my sunglasses, and took off in a single motion. My newly christened “aunties” converged behind me in perfect formation, their laughter echoing down the hall.

We burst out my front door in a flurry of pink, glitter, and baby giggles — the most undisciplined squadron in Sliberberg history — and charged toward destiny.

Or at least, toward the pool party.