The Mane’s Spare Crown — Every evening, Percival buffed the court crown until it smelled faintly of lemon oil and thunderclouds, then let the cub pages practice bowing at it. Read the full story →
Every evening, Percival buffed the court crown until it smelled faintly of lemon oil and thunderclouds, then let the cub pages practice bowing at it. Until one day, the crown vanished between gong and gravy. Because of that, the jackal treasurer accused the soup tureen, and because of THAT, the whole gift feast stalled while everyone searched under velvet cushions and inside the harp.
Percival felt an itch in the left swirl of his mane. He sneezed—politely—and out slid a tiny spare crown, warm from hiding where nobody had thought to look. “How rude of me to be furnished,” he murmured. While the hall argued with the harp, he tucked the little crown onto the donation platter, beside figs and silver spoons. The feast resumed; no one saw him nudge the platter toward the hungry gate guards. That night, he buffed the court crown until it smelled faintly of lemon oil and thunderclouds.
