Chapter 3
Pure Vanilla Cookie had always believed in kindness.
It was the foundation of everything he was, everything he had built. But as he stood at the gates of the Vanilla Kingdom, looking down at the tiny, shivering Cookie in the snow, he felt something deeper than kindness.
He felt rage.
The child—no older than a handful of seasons—clutched a flimsy paper crown in his small, trembling hands. His golden-blond hair was dusted with frost, his cape far too thin for the biting wind. And those eyes—those wide, blue eyes—held an emotion that Pure Vanilla had seen too many times before.
Not sadness.
Not even fear.
Hopelessness.
This child had been abandoned.
“…Hello there,” Pure Vanilla spoke softly, kneeling to meet the child’s gaze.
The boy flinched but didn’t run. He only curled into himself further, shoulders trembling.
Pure Vanilla’s heart clenched.
“What’s your name, little one?”
The child hesitated, then straightened just a fraction. “Custard… Custard Cookie III.”
Pure Vanilla blinked, surprised at the name’s grandeur. The child—Custard Cookie III—held his crown a little tighter, as if afraid it might be taken away.
“I see,” Pure Vanilla said gently. “That is a very noble name.”
Custard’s eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t expected praise.
Pure Vanilla extended a hand. “You must be freezing. Come inside, little king.”
Custard hesitated. His fingers curled around the edges of his crown, uncertain. “…I can?”
“Of course,” Pure Vanilla smiled, warmth filling his voice. “A king deserves a grand castle, doesn’t he?”
For the first time, Custard’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles.
And just like that, he placed his tiny hand in Pure Vanilla’s.
Pure Vanilla had taken in many souls before, had healed many wounded hearts. But Custard Cookie III was different.
He was a child who had learned to mask his sorrow behind grand speeches and royal proclamations. He would wave his scepter and declare, “As KING, I do not need bedtime!” only to collapse against Pure Vanilla’s robes, fast asleep.
He would insist, “I am strong! The strongest Cookie in the world!” while flinching at shadows that reminded him of the ones who had left him behind.
Pure Vanilla never pushed.
He simply held him close when nightmares made his tiny frame tremble. He listened patiently to each grand tale of Custard’s imaginary kingdom. He sewed tiny royal outfits and made sure there was always warm milk before bed.
And, slowly, Custard Cookie III began to believe.
He began to believe that the home Pure Vanilla had given him was his to keep.
That the arms around him were not temporary.
That love did not have to be earned.
One day, after a long afternoon of playing “Royal Court” with some of the kingdom’s citizens, Custard Cookie III turned to Pure Vanilla with an unusual seriousness in his expression.
“…Pure Vanilla?”
Pure Vanilla hummed, setting aside a book he had been reading. “Yes, little one?”
Custard hesitated, looking down at his tiny hands. Then, in a voice so small it could have been missed, he whispered, “You… you won’t leave, right?”
Pure Vanilla’s breath caught.
He immediately knelt down, cupping Custard’s face in his hands.
“Never.” His voice was steady, unwavering. “Not in a thousand years. Not in ten thousand.”
Custard bit his lip, searching Pure Vanilla’s face as if looking for a lie.
He found none.
“…Really?”
Pure Vanilla smiled, brushing a hand through Custard’s soft golden curls. “You are my little king, after all. And a king must always have a home, mustn’t he?”
Custard sniffled, his blue eyes growing misty.
And then, for the first time since he had arrived in the Vanilla Kingdom, he launched himself into Pure Vanilla’s arms.
Pure Vanilla held him tight, feeling the last of Custard’s walls crumble.
In that moment, Custard Cookie III was not a king.
He was not an orphan, nor an abandoned child lost in the snow.
He was simply loved.
And for the first time, he knew that was enough.