Chapter Text
The overworld felt much larger than it had just a few hours ago. To a six year old Wemmbu, the blades of grass seemed like towering emerald spears, and the wind felt more forceful against his smaller frame. Even in this diminished state, his regal instincts remained; his tiny, ornate black coat with its white fur trim felt heavy on his small shoulders, and the golden crown sat slightly lopsided on his messy purple hair.
He moved with a cautious, dignified grace, trying to maintain the poise of an Ender Prince despite his tiny stature. His little red gloved hand reached out to brush against a flower, but he quickly pulled it back, remembering his preference for minimal touch.
As he wandered, his mind raced in the ancient, melodic tones of the Nether and Enchanting languages. He wanted to call out for Eggchan, to demand to know why the world had suddenly grown so massive, but the words felt heavy in his small throat. He knew the meanings, the complex syntax of his people, but his vocal cords were too young to master the articulation.
He began to trot as much as a six year old royal could trot toward the source of the heat, his small boots crunching against the dirt.
Wemmbu’s tiny boots crunched through the thick grass, his brow furrowed in a miniature scowl of concentration. Everything was too bright, too green, and far too loud. The sun felt heavy on his head, and he found himself tugging at the collar of his ruffled shirt, feeling a sudden urge to find a dark, quiet corner to retreat to. Being an Ender Prince was exhausting enough when you were twenty; being a six year old prince was an absolute ordeal.
He was so busy trying to maintain his dignity while navigating a forest of giant weeds that he didn't notice the shadow looming over him.
"Well, now... what do we have here?"
Wemmbu froze. The voice was deep, unfamiliar, and definitely not the voice of Eggchan or Minutetech. He whipped around, his small hands curling into tiny fists, his violet eyes wide with a mix of royal indignation and genuine toddler sized fear.
Standing before him was Manepear. To the adult Wemmbu, Manepear was tall, and kind of intimidating.
Wemmbu’s small chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths. He instinctively took another step back, his tiny heel catching on a protruding tree root, but he forced himself to remain upright. He refused to stumble; a prince, even one who could barely reach a person's knee, did not lose his composure so easily.
He stared up at Manepear, his violet eyes scanning the stranger with intense, calculating scrutiny. This man was... different. He lacked the dark, regal aura of the Enderlings or the warm, smoky scent of the Netherlings. He smelled of fresh rain, damp earth, and sun warmed wood the unmistakable scent of the Overworld. To Wemmbu, this man was an alien, a creature from a bright, terrifyingly vast dimension that felt completely foreign to his soul.
Wemmbu's hand flew to his chest, clutching the purple gemstone brooch on his collar as if it were a shield. He wanted to demand, "Who are you to approach a royal without bowing?" but all that came out of his mouth was a soft, frustrated huff.
He opened his mouth to speak, his mind grasping for the words in the Nether language, but his tiny tongue felt clumsy.
"...Vora?" he chirped out, a small, broken syllable in the ancient tongue that roughly translated to a questioning of presence or identity. It was a soft, melodic sound, far more vulnerable than the commanding voice he was used to possessing.
He stood his ground, his small face set in a mask of cautious defiance, waiting to see if this giant Overworlder would be a friend or a threat to his miniature sovereignty.
Manepear blinked, his eyes widening as he stared down at the tiny, regal figure before him. He had been wandering the outskirts of the forest when he spotted a flash of purple and black, expecting perhaps a stray animal or a lost villager. Instead, he found a miniature boy dressed in clothes so intricate and expensive they looked like they belonged in a museum of ancient relics.
"A... kid?" Manepear muttered to himself, leaning down slightly to get a better look. "Where did you come from, little guy? Did you get lost on your way to a costume party?"
He noticed the golden crown perched precariously on the boy's head and the way the child held himself shoulders back, chin up, eyes narrowed with a level of suspicion that most adults didn't even possess. The kid didn't look scared in the way most children did; he looked offended.
When the boy spoke, Manepear tilted his head, confused. The sounds were melodic and strange, unlike any language he had heard in the Overworld. It sounded old, heavy with a history he couldn't quite grasp.
"Vora?" Manepear repeated, trying to mimic the sound, though it came out clumsy and much less dignified. He gave a small, friendly chuckle, though he noticed the boy flinch slightly at the sound. "Is that your name? Or are you asking me something? Don't worry, I'm not a monster. Name's Manepear."
Manepear reached out a hand, intending to perhaps pat the boy's head or offer a hand to help him if he tripped, but he paused mid air. There was something about the boy's aura
he can't quite place.
As Manepear's hand hovered in the air, the sunlight shifted, catching the side of the boy's neck just below the edge of his ruffled collar. Manepear froze. His eyes narrowed, focusing on a distinct, intricate mark etched into the child's pale skin.
It wasn't just a birthmark or a random pattern. It was a symbol a specific, ancient sigil that looked strikingly similar to the one he had seen on Minutetech. The resemblance was so uncanny it sent a jolt of recognition through him.
"Wait a second..." Manepear whispered, his voice losing its playful edge and turning serious. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his gaze fixed on the mark. "That mark... where did you get that?"
Wemmbu, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, felt the stranger's gaze intensify. He instinctively tilted his head away, trying to hide the mark with his messy purple hair, his violet eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp defensiveness. To him, that mark is a sign. A sign of-
Manepear’s brain felt like it was short circuiting. He stared at the tiny boy, then looked away toward the horizon, then back at the boy again. The confusion wasn't just about the mark anymore; it was about the face.
The kid had the same messy purple hair. The same sharp, intelligent violet eyes. The same aura of "don't you dare touch me unless you're important." Even the way the boy held his chin in that haughty, slightly annoyed manner was... hauntingly familiar.
Is this a dream? Manepear thought, rubbing his eyes. Did a miniature, royal version of Wemmbu just sprout out of the nowhere?
Just as the tension between the giant Overworlder and the tiny, suspicious prince reached a breaking point, a loud, jarring brrr brrr! sliced through the quiet of the forest.
Wemmbu jumped, his small shoulders jerking upward in a startled flinch. He let out a tiny, indignant squeak, his hands flying to his chest as he glared at the strange, rectangular object vibrating in Manepear's pocket. To a six year old, the sound was unnervingly loud and sudden.
Manepear fumbled with his pocket, looking slightly embarrassed. "Oh sorry, little guy! Hold on a sec," he muttered, pulling out his phone. He glanced at the screen and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
[Incoming Call: Parrot]
"Parrot?" Manepear whispered to himself, his brow furrowing. He looked from the phone to the tiny, regal child standing before him a child who looked exactly like a miniature version of one of his friends and bore the mark of another.
He swiped to answer, holding the phone to his ear while keeping his eyes locked on Wemmbu. "Hey, Parrot? Yeah, everything's fine, but... you're not gonna believe this. I think I just found a tiny, very angry, very well dressed prince in the middle of the woods. And Parrot... he looks exactly like Wemmbu."
Wemmbu, meanwhile, crossed his tiny arms over his chest, huffing a breath of pure annoyance. He didn't know what that "ringing box" was, but he decided right then and there that it was incredibly rude to interrupt a royal staring contest. He let out a small, sharp "Hmph!" in the Nether tongue, looking up at Manepear with a gaze that demanded an explanation for this noisy intrusion.
(Parrot: Bro, your little brother turned into a child!)
Manepear’s jaw practically hit the forest floor. He stared at the phone, then back at the tiny, huffing, purple haired boy, then back at the phone.
"FLAME?!" Manepear practically shouted into the receiver, causing Wemmbu to wince and cover his ears with his small, red gloved hands.
(Parrot: Yeah, Flamefrags turned into a child, I feel like Wemmbu might too. We told Minutetech about it and he's super worried about Wemmy.)
Manepear’s eyes widened so far they looked like they might pop out of his head. He looked down at the tiny, scowling boy at his feet, who was currently glaring at him with enough intensity to burn a hole through his boots.
"Wemmy...?" Manepear whispered into the phone, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at the mark on the child's neck again the mark that linked him to Minutetech. "Parrot, you don't understand. It's not just a guess. I'm looking at him right now. He's... he's tiny. And he's wearing a crown. And he looks like he's about to execute me for breathing too loudly!"
Wemmbu, hearing the strange, frantic sounds coming from the "ringing box," felt a surge of irritation. He didn't know who this 'Parrot' was, but the man was being incredibly loud and quite frankly, very unrefined.
He marched forward a single, dignified step, pointing a small, red gloved finger at Manepear's phone.
"Kraz! Vora shak!" he commanded, his voice high pitched but filled with as much authority as a six year old could muster. In his mind, he was saying: 'Silence, loud box! The Prince is speaking!'
Manepear nearly dropped the phone. "He's... he's actually talking, Parrot. Well, not 'talking' talking, but he's definitely bossing me around in some kind of ancient language. And he's got this look in his eyes... it's definitely Wemmbu. The exact same 'you're an idiot' look he gives us every day."
Manepear swallowed hard, looking at the tiny boy who was now huffing and looking away with a regal, dismissive tilt of his head. "Minutetech is worried? Yeah, tell him to get over here fast. Because this little guy is currently judging my entire existence."
The sheer volume of the voice erupting from the "ringing box" was enough to make Wemmbu stumble back a step. The voice was deep, resonant, and carried a frantic, commanding energy that felt strangely familiar to his small ears it felt like the presence of someone important, someone he should know.
"GET HIM OVER NOW "
The voice boomed with such intensity that Wemmbu’s tiny hands flew to his ears, his eyes squeezing shut. He let out a small, startled "Eek!" and nearly lost his balance, his little crown slipping even further down his forehead.
Manepear jumped as well, nearly dropping the phone as the sudden roar of Minutetech’s voice echoed through the trees. "Whoa! Okay, okay! Minutetech is coming! Calm down!" Manepear yelled back into the phone, his eyes wide as he looked down at the trembling, indignant boy.
Wemmbu's eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated shock. As Manepear reached down, the tiny prince didn't even have time to process the movement before he was scooped up.
"Vora! Kraz! Vora!" Wemmbu shrieked, his voice a high pitched melody of outrage. To him, this wasn't a "rescue" this was a blatant, unprovoked kidnapping! A royal should be escorted, not hoisted into the air like a sack of potatoes!
His small, red gloved hands flailed in the air, and his little legs kicked uselessly against Manepear's chest. He tried to maintain his dignity, but it was hard to look like a formidable Ender Prince when your feet were dangling several feet off the ground and your crown was threatening to slide off and vanish into the grass.
"Sorry, little prince! No time to argue!" Manepear called out, already breaking into a brisk jog. "We gotta get you to Parrot before Minutetech loses his mind!"
Wemmbu felt the world rushing past him as Manepear ran. The trees became a green blur, and the wind whipped his messy purple hair into his eyes. He felt a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest partly fear, partly a very intense desire to find a very large stick and hit this Overworlder with it.
As he was being carried, he caught sight of the distant smoke from earlier the same smoke that had signaled Flame. A realization hit his small, developing mind: If the loud box said the fire boy is small too...
He stopped flailing for a moment, his violet eyes turning serious. He looked at Manepear's shoulder, his expression shifting from anger to a quiet, regal determination. If his rival was also lost in this giant, green world, he couldn't just sit here and be "kidnapped."
When Manepear burst through the doors of Parrot's home, he was breathless, still clutching the tiny, indignant bundle in his arms.
"I got him! I got the mini Wemmb!" Manepear announced, stumbling into the center of the room.
Wemmbu was not a happy "bundle." As soon as Manepear set him down on the floor, the six year old prince didn't just stand up; he re established himself. He smoothed out his ruffled shirt with trembling, tiny hands, straightened his lopsided golden crown with a huff, and stood as tall as his small stature allowed. He looked around the room with a gaze of pure, unadulterated judgment, his violet eyes scanning the occupants as if deciding which ones were worthy of his presence.
"There he is!" Parrot exclaimed, leaning over to get a closer look. "Oh man, he really does look just like him. Even the grumpy face is identical."
Wemmbu's eyes darted to Parrot. He recognized the name from the 'ringing box,' but the man himself was a stranger. He crossed his small arms over his chest, looking up at the group of tall, looming adults.
"Kraz... vora... paza?" he muttered under his breath, his voice a tiny, melodic grumble. ('Silence... who are all of you... and where is the rest of the court?')
Just then, the door burst open again, and a much smaller, much more chaotic energy entered the room. A small boy, roughly eight years old, with messy hair and eyes that seemed to flicker with internal embers, came running in. He was tripping over his own feet, his clothes slightly singed, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears or an explosion possibly both.When Manepear burst through the doors of Parrot's home, he was breathless, still clutching the tiny, indignant bundle in his arms.
"I got him! I got the mini Wemmb!" Manepear announced, stumbling into the center of the room.
Wemmbu was not a happy "bundle." As soon as Manepear set him down on the floor, the six year old prince didn't just stand up; he re established himself. He smoothed out his ruffled shirt with trembling, tiny hands, straightened his lopsided golden crown with a huff, and stood as tall as his small stature allowed. He looked around the room with a gaze of pure, unadulterated judgment, his violet eyes scanning the occupants as if deciding which ones were worthy of his presence.
"There he is!" Parrot exclaimed, leaning over to get a closer look. "Oh man, he really does look just like him. Even the grumpy face is identical."
Wemmbu's eyes darted to Parrot. He recognized the name from the 'ringing box,' but the man himself was a stranger. He crossed his small arms over his chest, looking up at the group of tall, looming adults.
"Kraz... vora... paza?" he muttered under his breath, his voice a tiny, melodic grumble. ('Silence... who are all of you... and where is the rest of the court?')
Just then, the door burst open again, and a much smaller, much more chaotic energy entered the room. A small boy, roughly eight years old, with messy hair and eyes that seemed to flicker with internal embers, came running in. He was tripping over his own feet, his clothes slightly singed, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears or an explosion possibly both.
The moment the door swung open, the air in the room seemed to shift. Minutetech didn't just walk in; he practically collided with the space, his eyes scanning the room with a frantic, sharp intensity. When his gaze landed on the tiny, purple haired figure standing defiantly in the center of the floor, his entire demeanor changed.
"Wemmy!"
Minutetech rushed forward, his movements a blur of urgency. He dropped to his knees in front of the boy, his hands hovering near Wemmbu's shoulders as if afraid that touching him too roughly might cause the child to vanish. His expression was a complex storm of emotions: a deep, paternal worry for the boy's safety in this strange, bright Overworld, and a much more guarded, intense anxiety regarding the secret they both carried.
To anyone else, Minutetech just looked like a worried guardian. But to someone who knew the truth, the way his eyes flickered toward the mark on Wemmbu's neck was telling. He wasn't just worried about the boy getting a scraped knee; he was worried about the boy being seen. An Ender Prince, even a tiny one, was a living relic of an extinct lineage. In a world of Overworlders and Netherlings, Wemmbu was a walking target of curiosity or worse, a prize to be captured.
Wemmbu, feeling the sudden rush of warmth and the familiar, heavy presence of the man, felt his royal mask slip for just a second. He didn't know why this man's arrival made his chest feel so tight, but he recognized the feeling of his aura. It was the feeling of the End of home.
"Minu...?" Wemmbu whispered, the name a soft, broken fragment of the language he knew. He reached out a small, red gloved hand, tentatively touching Minutetech's sleeve.
Minutetech let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a lifetime, his hand finally settling gently on the boy's back, shielding him from the prying eyes of Parrot and Manepear. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice low and protective, his eyes darting briefly to the others as if warning them not to look too closely at the boy's regal features or the mark on his neck. "You're safe. We've got you."
Wemmbu leaned into the touch, his tiny shoulders finally relaxing. He still looked like a prince, but in this moment, he just felt like a very small, very tired boy.
The transition from "regal prince" to "hungry toddler" happened much faster than Wemmbu would have liked to admit. Despite his best efforts to maintain a dignified air, the sheer physical exhaustion of being six years old and the overwhelming sensory input of the Overworld had left his stomach growling in a way that was decidedly un princely.
Parrot, ever the practical one, had handed him a bowl of cereal. Wemmbu stared at the colorful, sugary loops in the milk with deep suspicion. To him, it looked like a collection of tiny, edible gemstones, but the concept of "cereal" was entirely foreign to his End born sensibilities. However, after one hesitant, tiny spoonful, he found himself eating with a focused, intense determination, his small red gloved hands occasionally getting a bit of milk on them.
Once the "ritual of the crunchy loops" was complete, Minutetech scooped him up. He didn't say much, but his grip was firm and protective, a silent promise of safety. He carried Wemmbu over to where the little Netherling was sitting.
Flame was currently a small, eight year old whirlwind of chaos. He was sitting on a rug, staring intensely at a book that was far too large for him, his tiny eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. Every few seconds, a small pop would emit from his hair, sending tiny, harmless sparks dancing into the air.
Minutetech gently placed Wemmbu down on the rug right next to him.
Wemmbu sat there for a moment, smoothing out his ruffled shirt and adjusting his lopsided crown. He looked at the little Netherling. Flame looked... messy. His hair was a disaster, his clothes were singed, and he was making a ridiculous face while trying to read.
Normally, the twenty year old Wemmbu would have made a sharp, witty comment about Flame's lack of decorum. But as the six year old, a strange, instinctive pull drew him closer. He didn't say a word he couldn't quite form the words yet but he leaned slightly toward the warmth radiating from Flame.
Flame looked up from his book, his eyes flickering with a familiar, competitive spark. He let out a small, huffy sound, a tiny version of his usual "get lost" grunt, but he didn't move away. Instead, he shifted just enough to make room for the little purple haired boy.
For a brief moment, the rivalry was paused. There was no prince and no chaotic Netherling; there were just two very small, very confused children, sitting together in the quiet warmth of a shared, accidental destiny.
Wemmbu's curiosity was a powerful force, even in his diminished state. He leaned in closer, his small, red gloved hand reaching out as if to touch the parchment, but he caught himself at the last second, remembering his preference for not being "unrefined." He settled for simply peering over Flame's shoulder, his violet eyes widening as he tried to make sense of the symbols.
The book was thick, the pages smelling of old dust and burnt embers. To Wemmbu, the script wasn't just ink on paper; it was a jumble of strange, jagged shapes. Because he was an Ender, his mind was wired for the elegant, flowing curves of the End and the melodic structures of the Nether languages. This book, however, seemed to be written in a heavy, terrestrial script the language of the Overworlders.
He squinted, his brow furrowing in a way that made him look much older than six. He could see the diagrams of various ores and the strange, looping letters of the alphabet, but the meaning eluded him.
"...Sha? Vora?" he whispered, a tiny, confused sound. He was trying to find a linguistic bridge, a way to translate these clunky Overworld marks into something his brain could grasp.
Flame, sensing the tiny presence hovering over his work, let out a sharp, indignant huff. A small puff of smoke escaped his lips, and he pulled the book slightly closer to his chest, as if guarding a treasure. He looked at Wemmbu with a glare that said, 'This is my studying time, don't you dare distract me!'
The huff was a perfect, miniature replica of the adult Wemmbu’s most dramatic expression of annoyance. It was a sharp, indignant exhale that puffed out his small cheeks and made his lopsided crown wobble precariously on his head.
How dare this tiny, soot covered creature act so territorial over a mere collection of ink and paper? Wemmbu thought, his violet eyes flashing with a spark of royal indignation. He was a Prince! He was accustomed to being presented with information, not having to beg for a glimpse of it!
He crossed his tiny arms over his chest, leaning back just an inch to reclaim some of his lost dignity. He stared at Flame with a look of profound unimpressedness, as if to say: 'Fine. Keep your dusty scribbles. I didn't want to look at them anyway.'
But he didn't actually move away.
Instead, he sat there, a small, silent, and very grumpy purple shadow. He stayed close enough to feel the comforting, rhythmic warmth radiating from the Netherling, even if he would never admit to enjoying the company. He settled into a pose of "casual observation," pretending he was simply waiting for the book to become interesting on its own, while his eyes kept darting back to the strange, jagged symbols on the page.
Flame, sensing the silent war of wills, gave a tiny, triumphant smirk a small, mischievous glint in his eyes before turning back to his book with an extra layer of exaggerated focus, as if to prove he was much more serious about his studies than the "annoying purple kid" next to him.
Wemmbu had just managed to reclaim a sense of royal composure when his stomach betrayed him again with a loud, unrefined gurgle. He looked longingly at the half empty bowl of colorful cereal Parrot had left on the low table nearby.
With a dignified, albeit slow, crawl, he reached for the bowl. He intended to eat it with the grace of a prince small, controlled bites, no mess but the sheer joy of the sugary crunch was overwhelming. He was halfway through a particularly delicious, milk soaked loop when he felt a sudden, intense heat beside him.
Pop!
A tiny spark of Nether fire drifted from Flame's hair, landing right next to the bowl. Wemmbu froze, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth, and glared sideways.
To his utter shock, Flame wasn't just watching him. The little Netherling had abandoned his book entirely. His eyes were fixed on the bowl with a look of pure, unadulterated greed. Flame, the fierce and volatile little fire user, was currently staring at the cereal like it was the most precious treasure in the entire Unstable Universe.
Flame reached out a small, soot stained hand, his fingers twitching toward the bowl.
"Mmm... vora!" Flame chirped, a tiny, hungry sound that was unmistakately an invitation or a demand.
Wemmbu’s eyes widened. The audacity! The sheer, unmitigated gall of this little ember child to try and share a royal snack! He pulled the bowl closer to his chest, his small red gloved hand clutching the rim defensively.
He let out a sharp, high pitched huff, his cheeks puffing out as he glared at Flame. He looked like a tiny, purple haired dragon guarding a hoard of sugary gold. He wouldn't give in easily; a prince did not share his spoils with a common, soot covered rival even if that rival was currently making the most pathetic, wide eyed "please" face Wemmbu had ever seen.
Wemmbu's eyes narrowed into tiny slits of pure, royal defiance. He pulled the bowl even closer, the ceramic clinking against his small chest as he huddled over it like a dragon guarding its most precious hoard.
"Hmph!" he let out, a sound so sharp and indignant it was practically a physical force. He gave Flame a look of such profound, judgmental disdain that it was a wonder the little Netherling didn't wilt under the pressure. To Wemmbu, this wasn't just about food; it was about principle. A prince did not simply hand over his sustenance to a chaotic, soot covered rival just because they made a "cute" face.
He picked up a single, bright blue cereal loop with his red gloved hand, held it up as if inspecting it for flaws, and then with a deliberate, slow, and incredibly smug motion popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, making sure to maintain eye contact with Flame the entire time, his violet eyes gleaming with a "too slow" sort of triumph.
It was a silent declaration of war. The cereal bowl was the battlefield, and Wemmbu was currently winning.
However, as he swallowed, he noticed Flame's expression shifting. The little Netherling wasn't backing down; instead, a tiny, mischievous grin was spreading across Flame's face, and his hair was starting to smoke a little more intensely. A small, playful pop sounded from Flame's fingertip, sending a tiny, harmless spark dancing toward the edge of the bowl.
Wemmbu's eyes widened. He realized that if he wasn't careful, this "snack time" was about to turn into a full scale miniature skirmish. He tightened his grip on the bowl, his small brow furrowing. He was a Prince of the End, and he would defend his sugary treasure to the very last drop!
The moment Wemmbu felt the sudden, jarring tug on the ceramic, his entire world tilted.
Flame hadn't just reached for a loop; the little Netherling had lunged forward with the unrefined, single minded determination of an eight year old, his small, soot stained hand gripping the very edge of the bowl.
"Vora! KRAZ!" Wemmbu shrieked, the sound coming out as a high pitched, melodic squeak of pure outrage.
The tug of war was on. Wemmbu planted his tiny, red gloved feet firmly into the rug, leaning his entire weight backward to counter the pull. He was small, yes, but he was a Prince, and he had the stubbornness of an entire dimension behind him. His face turned a light shade of violet from the sheer effort, his small teeth gritted in a fierce scowl.
Flame, meanwhile, was leaning in with a determined grunt, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He wasn't trying to steal the whole bowl he just wanted a piece of the action, a taste of the "treasure" he'd been eyeing. Every time Wemmbu pulled back, Flame gave a tiny, playful tug, his hair emitting a series of tiny pop pop pops like miniature fireworks.
To any onlooker, it was a ridiculous sight: two tiny, highly dressed children engaged in a silent, intense struggle over a bowl of sugary cereal. But to Wemmbu, this was a battle for sovereignty.
He let out a frustrated, huffy breath, his eyes darting to Minutetech for help, but the older man was too busy watching the chaos with a mixture of amusement and "oh no, not again" exhaustion.
Wemmbu looked back at Flame, his gaze narrowing. If the Netherling wanted a fight, he would give him one. With a sudden, decisive movement, Wemmbu stopped pulling and instead used his free hand to scoop a large, milk soaked loop and held it right in front of Flame's nose, a tactical "bribe" to end the struggle and regain control of his bowl. It was a move of pure, calculated diplomacy the kind only a very clever six year old prince could execute.
The tactic worked better than he could have hoped. Flame’s eyes widened at the sight of the milky, sugary prize hovering inches from his face. The little Netherling’s grip on the bowl loosened instantly, his attention completely hijacked by the bribe.
Seizing the moment, Wemmbu gave one final, triumphant yank on the bowl, pulling it back into his own personal territory. He sat there, panting slightly, his chest heaving as he glared at the now stunned Flame. He had won. He had successfully defended his honor and his breakfast through the use of superior intellect and strategic bribery.
He let out a final, smug "Hmph!" and went back to eating, though he made sure to keep a very close, watchful eye on the little fire boy. He wouldn't be caught off guard a second time. Not on his watch.
He sat there, panting slightly, his chest heaving as he glared at the now stunned Flame. He had won. He had successfully defended his honor and his breakfast through the use of superior intellect and strategic bribery. He let out a final, smug "Hmph!" and went back to eating, though he made sure to keep a very close, watchful eye on the little fire boy. He wouldn't be caught off guard a second time. Not on his watch.
However, the victory was short lived. As Wemmbu reached for his next spoonful, he felt a sudden, intense warmth spreading from his side. Flame, having been successfully distracted by the bribe, hadn't actually given up. Instead, the little Netherling had shifted his strategy. Rather than tugging the bowl, Flame had leaned in close, his eyes fixed on the cereal loop Wemmbu was currently holding.
With a sudden, lightning fast movement, Flame didn't grab the bowl he grabbed the spoon.
"Vora!" Flame chirped, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he yanked the utensil away.
Wemmbu froze, the empty spoon still hovering near his mouth. He stared at the empty air where his food had just been, then slowly turned his head to look at Flame, who was now triumphantly shoving the stolen cereal into his own mouth, his hair sparking with pure, unadulterated joy.
The Prince's eyes narrowed. The war wasn't over. It had simply entered a new, much more chaotic phase.