The wind whispered through the ruins of Cedric's cabin.
Ash clung to the walls like memory. The coop behind him was quiet now — too quiet. Clucksworth stood alone, feathers gone, armor unraveled, grief blooming in his chest like a thorned flower.
He stepped forward, and the ground beneath him pulsed.
Cotton spilled from his chest, not in pain — but in purpose. His plush body began to shift. Limbs stretched. Wings split into fingers. His beak softened into a mouth. He grew taller, leaner, human-like… but not fully.
One half of him remained plush — stitched seams running down his left side like battle scars. His left arm was entirely cotton, soft but strong, glowing faintly with warmth. His right side was flesh and bone, scarred from the transformation. His heart beat with a muffled rhythm, stuffed with sorrow.
He looked into a cracked mirror nailed to the cabin wall.
A teen stared back — half boy, half plush, all vengeance.
Beside him, the toy lance twitched. It unraveled, threads dancing in the air, weaving themselves into something new. A rapier formed — long, elegant, and stitched entirely
from thread and cotton. The blade shimmered like silk, but at its tip gleamed a single, needle-sharp point, forged from grief and hardened by purpose.
He gripped it with his cotton hand. It hummed in his grasp.
Outside, his plush horse waited — stitched from pillows and dreams, its button eyes glowing faintly in the dark. It neighed softly, sensing the change.
The stars above blinked. The wind carried whispers — demon voices, distant and cruel.
Clucksworth tried to walk but couldn't he realized these plush legs weren't made for walking.