When the Dreamer Birds appeared, trailing constellations behind their wings, one might expect Milo and his friends to chase after them with graceful urgency and a sense of destiny.
Instead, Luca tripped on a tea-root stump and face-planted into a pile of wild marshmallows.
"Stars above!" he sputtered, emerging with sticky eyebrows. "Did the universe have to make destiny squishy?!"
Milo, still holding the glowing feather, pointed toward the birds soaring northeast.
"They're heading toward the Echoing Valley!" Alma gasped, flipping through her oversized field book. "That's the place where dreams bounce off hills and come back as riddles!"
"Wait," Milo said, blinking. "Is that the valley where Farmer Tobin once heard his cabbage dream of being a motivational speaker?"
"Exactly," Alma confirmed. "Weird stuff echoes there."
Whiskers stretched lazily across Milo's shoulders. "So, what's our plan? Follow the birds? Or nap and let destiny send us a letter?"
---
One Hour Later… At Echoing Valley
Echoing Valley did not disappoint.
The moment they stepped into the grassy basin, the wind picked up—and immediately began whispering everyone's unspoken thoughts out loud.
"Don't sneeze, don't sneeze, you'll spook the birds," echoed Milo's inner monologue.
"I hope Milo didn't see me eat the emergency jam ration," followed by Luca's sheepish glance.
"Do squirrels dream of acorn-powered airships?" echoed Alma's innocent curiosity.
They walked carefully, stepping over tufts of sparkling grass, which squeaked when stepped on.
The Dreamer Birds circled above, glowing brighter now. Then—without warning—they shed feathers in a spiral pattern before soaring onward.
The feathers drifted like golden leaves and hovered mid-air, forming a perfect circle. Inside it, a shimmering image appeared:
A pond… with a single enormous egg in the middle… glowing like a sun.
"Oooooh," Alma whispered. "It's like a vision!"
Milo leaned in. "That pond… that's in the Jellydrop Glade, right? Near that hill that smells like blueberry tea?"
Luca nodded. "I used to nap there during pastry deliveries."
"And that egg," said Whiskers, tail twitching. "That's not normal. I sense… potential prophecy shenanigans."
---
Later, at Jellydrop Glade
The glade was unusually silent.
No buzzing bees, no humming flowers—just the sound of leaves politely rustling.
And there it was: the egg.
It sat on a bed of moss that shimmered faintly, nearly the size of a watermelon. Swirls of gold and blue ran across its surface like celestial ink.
Alma crept close. "I… I think it's listening to us."
Milo furrowed his brow. "How do you—"
> "Hello," said the egg in a crisp, well-articulated voice.
Everyone froze.
> "I do hope I'm not being rude," it continued. "I only recently gained consciousness. Fascinating, really. I've been composing haikus."
Luca slowly sat down. "Okay. Yup. This is my life now. Talking eggs."
"Are you," Milo asked cautiously, "a… magical artifact? A bird? A riddle?"
> "I'm not entirely sure," the egg admitted. "But I believe I was dreamed into existence. Or possibly wished into being by an overachieving wombat philosopher named Greg."
"Of course," Alma nodded seriously. "Greg."
Just then, from the trees came a stately egret wearing half-moon glasses and a tweed vest.
> "Excuse me," it said in perfect elocution. "We—the Aviary Guild of Elevated Speech—have come to check on the verbal viability of this anomaly."
Milo blinked. "Is that a talking egret… with paperwork?"
Luca squinted. "Wait. You're the ones teaching the animals to talk?!"
> "Indeed," the egret nodded. "It's part of our curriculum initiative. We've simply expanded our syllabus… accidentally. Someone spilled enchanted ink into the Wildwind Stream. That seems to have sparked mass linguistic bloom among fauna."
> "So we're not the cause?" Milo exclaimed with deep relief.
Whiskers purred. "We're finally not the reason something weird is happening. I could cry."
---
Back at Milo's Workshop That Evening
The egg now sat in a plush pillow nest, humming softly to itself.
> "I've decided to name myself Professor Eggwin Featherforth," it declared. "I shall write memoirs."
Milo collapsed on the couch, laughing so hard he nearly spilled a calming tea potion.
Alma hugged her notebook. "I love this village."
Luca held up a sign that said "I am not responsible for any pastry-related enchantments. This time."
Whiskers curled up beside the egg. "I bet that thing's going to hatch into a grammatically perfect phoenix."
Outside, the Dreamer Birds passed once more—silent, watchful, waiting.
Because this was only the beginning.