The café opened late that morning.
Mostly because Sabel had spent the entire night crafting something of "great heroic value"—a cup. Not just any cup. Not porcelain, not glass. No, this one was forged of enchanted ceramic blessed by a sleepy blacksmith who accidentally sneezed mid-spell and made it resistant to sarcasm.
"I present to you," Sabel declared to an empty room (except for the parrot and three confused beans on the floor), "the Cup of Champions!"
The cup shimmered. It glowed. It had tiny golden wings on its handle that flapped dramatically whenever someone said something motivational.
"It's... a mug," said Percival the parrot, unimpressed.
Sabel held it aloft like a sacred relic. "Not just any mug! This cup, dear Percival, will reveal the true coffee champion—the one whose brew inspires legends and possibly cures minor heartache!"
The parrot blinked. "Does it wash itself?"
"No."
"Then it's just a fancy bowl with dreams."
The Decree of the Day
To ensure the proper level of chaos, Sabel put up a sign outside the café:
CHALLENGE DAY Can you brew the perfect drink?Winner gets the Cup of Champions and one free cinnamon roll.(Warning: Cup may fly away if your soul is boring.)
The contestants arrived swiftly.
First came Marick, the bad-luck adventurer, who brought beans he found near a sewer. "These smell like victory!" he said, ignoring the flies.
Then Rosemary entered with an herbal infusion so aromatic the trees bowed in respect.
A mysterious bard called Lutes McSpoon arrived, carrying a mandolin and a teacup filled with glitter. "I brew with rhythm," he said.
Even Miran, the ex-spy-now-occasional-coffee-crasher, returned with a royal recipe.
Sabel, naturally, accepted all challengers while wearing a cape made of napkins and a bandana that read I Am the Bean King.
Let the Brew Begin
Each contestant approached the Cup of Champions one by one, placing their coffee beneath its mighty rim. The cup judged them by magical instinct and possibly sass.
Marick's brew: The cup shivered. Then spat. A rock flew out. Rejected.
Rosemary's blend: The cup twirled gently, wings fluttering. It hummed. Not bad.
Lutes McSpoon's attempt: Cup sniffed the glitter. Sparkled. Then exploded into confetti. A neutral vote.
Miran's royal blend: The cup floated briefly, hovered over his coffee… and then sneezed. Rejected. Again.
Last up was Sabel.
He stood with a straight back, ladled a rich, velvety stream from his hidden pot—a chili-caramel-vanilla-light roast fusion—and poured it into the cup.
The Cup of Champions began to sing.
It actually sang.
A baritone hum echoed through the room. The golden wings shimmered. The handle glowed a warm, proud amber.
Sabel sipped it.
Then offered it to the others.
Everyone, from parrot to passerby, took a sip.
And in that moment, no one cared who won.
They all felt like champions.
Victory, Goofiness & The Spill
As celebration erupted, the parrot attempted to wear the cup as a hat. It rejected him and zoomed off into the air, flapping around and knocking over three tables and one unfortunate lizard collector.
Sabel chased after it yelling, "COME BACK HERE YOU MAGNIFICENT CERAMIC PEACOCK!"
It eventually landed—miraculously—on the café's trophy shelf next to "Most Dramatic Froth Art" and "Least Sane Barista (5 Years Running)."
Later That Evening
The café buzzed with chatter. Laughter spilled into the streets. Everyone who had tried, failed, or laughed that day sat sipping something warm, watching the Cup of Champions glow gently under the candlelight.
Percival, perched on Sabel's shoulder, muttered, "So who won, technically?"
Sabel smirked. "Who cares? Look at them. Everyone walked away smiling."
The parrot nodded. "Still think the cup should wash itself."
Sabel raised a brow. "That's next week's spell."
He leaned back in his chair, sipped from a regular mug—no wings, no magic—and watched the stars twinkle like they, too, were slightly caffeinated.
And the Cup of Champions sat proud and still… until someone spilled hot cocoa on its base, and it flew off in dramatic protest.
Of course.