Chaos in the Cookie Jar

Shadow Milk Pov:

The air buzzed—trembled, even—with an electric tension that slithered along my limbs like a living thing. The scent of magic was thick on my tongue, cloying and heavy, undercut by the sickly-sweet aroma of the Yogurt River just behind us. A deceptive scent. Pleasant at first... until it curdled in the throat. Just like hope.

I grinned, lips pulling back in that sly, familiar curl—crooked, sharp-edged, slick with something between amusement and bloodlust. My staff spun between my fingers, whirling like a storm-tossed ribbon, a blur of black and blueberry-glinting silver. It moved as if it had a will of its own. Maybe it did. Maybe I did, too.

Across from me, Pure Vanilla Cookie stood in that infuriating, immovable way of his—serene, gentle, righteous to a fault. His robes flowed around him like warm candlelight, and the blue glow of his Soul Jam pulsed against his chest, steady and unwavering, like a heartbeat that had never known fear. His eyes, those barely-open things, were fixed on me—not in anger. Not even pity.

Conviction.

It clung to him like perfume. And I loathed it.

“Still playing saint, are we?” I said, my voice low, curling out of my mouth in a silken hiss, laced with humor that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “You cling to your ideals like they’re armor. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

With a flick, my staff snapped into place, the blueberry-shaped eye at its crown gleaming wetly. I surged forward, letting the ectoplasmic coils around my feet lift me with ghostly ease. The arc of magic I unleashed wasn’t a beam, wasn’t a bolt—it was alive. A mass of milk-white, spectral force—dripping, churning, fanged and clawed and barely tethered to form. Illusion made flesh. Truth made nightmare.

But he was ready.

His staff rose in a clean, practiced motion—like the strike of a match or the toll of a bell. Golden light spilled from it, woven into a barrier so delicate it looked breakable. Morning dew on porcelain. A breath could shatter it. But it held.

My magic hit it with a shriek, the sound keening high and cold—a scream in two voices: mine and his. Purity against deceit. The light flared. My ectoplasm surged. The pressure between us bent the air like heat haze.

I pushed forward, snarling, letting the river of magic spill from my limbs, curling around me like smoke from a candle snuffed too soon. He blocked again. Again. Always just enough. Too precise. Too careful.

“You’re getting better,” I whispered, circling him with my staff at the ready, my feet not quite touching the mossy ground. “But the light can’t protect you from everything. You know that, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He only stood there, calm as a stone in a storm.

Then it happened.

A flick. A twist. Subtle, barely there—but enough. He redirected my magic with a pivot of his staff, as if brushing aside a thread of silk. My own attack coiled backward—reflected—slashing toward me like a serpent biting its tail.

I barely had time to react. The spectral claw struck my shoulder with a hiss, not quite solid, not quite smoke. I felt it burn. Not pain. Something stranger.

My balance slipped.

One heel skidded on the slick riverbank, moss clinging to my foot like desperate hands. My staff tilted. The world tilted. The sky—cloudless and blue—spun above me.

“No—wait—!”

I tumbled backward, over the edge.

And into the Yogurt River.

It was instant.

The current closed around me like a mouth—cool, thick, slow but strong. Not like water. Like drowning in sweetness, a liquid lullaby of syrup and secrets. But there was something older beneath the sugar. Something that remembered.

My body spasmed, jerked—ectoplasm lashing in all directions. My legs dissolved into mist. My arms twitched. Eyes opened across my hair—dozens, all wide, all watching—blinking with synchronized horror. My staff slipped from my fingers, drifting downward in the milk-white depths like a falling star.

The river… moved.

It touched me. Not just my body. My Soul Jam.

Something wrapped around it—no, into it—pressing softly against my chest. I felt the whisper more than heard it. Velvet-soft. Unspeakably ancient.

“Who are you?”

I tried to move, but the milk clung to me. I was already intangible, my form a phantom drifting in and out of reality. But this—this was different. The Yogurt River didn’t just hold me.

It was tasting me.

No, worse—it was rewriting me.

My limbs trembled. I couldn’t tell where my body ended and the river began. My claws—did I have claws? My voice—what did I sound like again? My name—

What was Shadow Milk Cookie, truly?

A lie? A ghost? A joke?

A curse?

I floated there, suspended in sweetness and silence, while reality thinned like paper under flame. Above, distorted through the creamy surface, I saw him. Pure Vanilla Cookie. Haloed in light, staff clenched, unmoving. He didn’t pursue me. Didn’t try to save me.

But I wasn’t angry.

I laughed—softly, bubbles slipping from my lips, fizzling like stars in milk. My smile twisted, half-feral and wholly delighted, even as the river dragged me deeper.

“One mistake…” I murmured, breathless. “Is that all it takes?”

Yes.

And wasn’t that beautiful?

Delightful.

Pure Vanilla pov:

I felt it before I saw it.

A tremor in the air—gentle, but vast. The kind of shift that reached beyond magic, beyond time, and sank its roots into something eternal. The Yogurt River stirred, not with chaos, but with purpose. Its magic bloomed outward like petals under divine light, unfolding in slow, sacred motion. A holy stillness spread across the battlefield.

My staff trembled faintly in my grip.

Shadow Milk Cookie had fallen. Or… no. He had not fallen. He had been claimed.

Chosen.

I took a step toward the edge, eyes fixed on the river’s now-luminous surface. It glowed from within—radiant and warm, the color of memory and rebirth. It pulsed in rhythm with something old. Older than any of us. Older than the war, older than the Kingdoms. The river didn’t just flow—it remembered.

The ectoplasm in the air had thinned. The laughter—the wicked, fractured mirth that always danced on Shadow Milk's tongue—broke apart.

Then choked.

Then… silence.

The river drank him down, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing. No ripples. No sound. Just that stillness. That waiting.

And then—he rose.

But he wasn’t who I expected.

Gone was the grin that curled like a knife. Gone were the haunting eyes that watched with a hundred unseen gazes. Gone was the cloying aura of deceit that lingered like fog around the edges of the world. What emerged from the Yogurt River was… serene.

The Cookie before me was bathed in soft, glowing blues. His body no longer oozed with ectoplasm or shifted in transparency. His form was whole. Stable. Real. The colors of shadow had bled away, replaced with pastels that shimmered with quiet grace. His expression—once full of slyness and teeth—was calm. Gentle.

And then he did something I could never have predicted.

He bowed.

Deeply.

Sincerely.

There was no arrogance in the gesture. No mocking undertone. No sleight-of-hand waiting to twist it all into a cruel joke.

Only reverence.

“I have returned to my true self,” he said, voice like the first breeze of spring after a long, bitter winter. “Thank you, Pure Vanilla. I am… Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie.”

I stared.

My breath caught somewhere between astonishment and disbelief. My staff lowered an inch. My fingers trembled.

This wasn’t trickery. I could feel it—his Soul Jam pulsed differently now. No longer warped, no longer steeped in illusion or wrapped in ectoplasmic veil. It beat like a clean heart. Pure.

And yet…

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Was this… redemption?

Was this what we fought for? What I had hoped—prayed—for, even in the darkest hours? That even the lost could return? That even the broken could be made whole?

Or was this the river’s will?

Its strange, sweet magic—a force of cleansing and change, beautiful and terrible. Was this transformation its mercy? Or a cruel joke in divine disguise?

I didn’t know.

All I could do was watch, my heart aching with questions I had no words for.

He—Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie—looked at me with peace behind his eyes.

And I wondered…

Had I just witnessed a miracle?

Or a farewell?

HollyBerry pov:

“HAH?!”

The word tore out of me like a cannon blast, loud enough to make a flock of Cream Puffs fly off the trees somewhere. I stomped forward, armor creaking, shield dragging behind me with a gritty scrape as it plowed through the soft dirt. My battle high—raging just a second ago—fizzled out like flat soda pop. One blink we’re in the middle of a proper clash, weapons flashing, magic flying, me about to launch my next glorious charge—and then that little spook decides it’s time for a spiritual awakening?!

There he stood—used to be Shadow Milk Cookie, all teeth and ectoplasm and “boo-hoo I’m spooky and mysterious.” Now? Smiling like he just woke up from a decade-long nap, stretched out his back, and decided to live his best life.

Hair all calm and silky. Aura as smooth as yogurt. A face so serene he might’ve been carved out of divine cheesecake. He bowed, like a noble at a ball, and I just—

I just stood there.

Mouth open.

Shield halfway raised.

Brain completely blank.

“…Berry jam,” I muttered, squinting at him, “Did the river bless him… or brainwash him?!”

Seriously, what kind of yogurt has redemptive arc magic?! Since when did falling into a milky river turn you from haunted trickster to enlightenment-in-a-cookie-wrapper?!

I turned, eyes darting to the others.

Pure Vanilla looked like someone had hit his reset button. That soft smile of his was frozen, just slightly tilted—like he was trying to process divine intervention in real time. And Burning Spice Cookie—blazing, unflinching, always looking like he’s five seconds from exploding into flames? Even he was stunned. His brows furrowed. His weapon was lowered. His mouth actually closed.

I mean, for the love of holly, if he’s speechless?

Something’s up.

I exhaled sharply, hands on my hips. The tip of my shield thunked into the ground with a heavy finality.

“Nope,” I muttered under my breath. “Absolutely not. I need a drink.”

I glanced back at the Yogurt River, its creamy ripples still glowing like it had done something right.

“Or five.”

I narrowed my eyes at the Cookie formerly known as Shadow Milk. “If you start spouting inspirational quotes and passing out herbal tea, I swear on my berries…”

Burning spice pov:

The Yogurt River churned.

Not like water. Like magma. Thick, alive, sacred. I felt it—deep under the surface. Not heat, but pressure. Power. The kind that shifts continents, swallows mountains, breaks fate in half. Divine, ancient, and watching.

I didn’t flinch when the ghost Cookie slipped in—Shadow Milk, with his smirks and whispers and illusions. He writhed, muttered something I couldn’t catch, something that crackled through the air like smoke from a dying fire.

And then—he changed.

The fire in my gut didn’t burn.

It paused.

He rose from the river like a memory re-shaped, soaked in light that shimmered like morning mist. No jagged smile. No creeping eyes in his hair. No dripping ectoplasm that tasted like lies on the wind.

He looked… calm.

Worse—at peace.

He spoke. His voice didn’t carry a sneer. It was level. Measured. Like still air before a monsoon. Controlled. Heavy with purpose.

I hated it.

“...Hmph.” I spat into the dirt, tightening my grip on the haft of my axe. My knuckles creaked. “Where’d your fangs go, little phantom?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me.

Smiling.

That same, even smile like he’d solved the mystery of life and didn’t feel the need to share it. Like he’d moved past us—past me. As if the fire, the fight, the teeth… were childish things.

I took a step forward, the earth cracking beneath my heel. My aura hissed like lava beneath crust.

“I don’t trust it,” I muttered. “Power like that doesn’t vanish. It doesn’t fade.”

My eyes narrowed. My Soul Jam pulsed slow, hot, waiting.

“It sleeps.”

He turned away then, his gaze drifting to Pure Vanilla, like I was background noise. Like I wasn’t burning.

That serene glow wrapped around him like a second skin. But I’ve seen what’s underneath peaceful masks.

And when it wakes again—I’ll be ready.

Golden Cheese pov:

I gasped—barely.

A breath, quick and quiet. Just enough to betray the shock without losing poise. Never show too much. Never let them see you unguarded. Composure is currency.

But inside?

My mind raced like a sandstorm through a golden vault.

The Yogurt River… actually did it.

For centuries, whispers, myths, throwaway tales spoke of its ancient power—its ability to cleanse, to reshape, to reveal. I had always thought it metaphor. Poetic. A parable meant to teach Cookies about guilt and transformation.

But no. It was real.

The path from deceit to truth—made manifest. And it had just taken a ghost and handed back… a saint.

I tightened my grip on my spear, eyes scanning the scene like a merchant appraising a vault full of unfamiliar treasure. Every Cookie. Every glance. Every breath.

Shadow Milk—no, Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie now—stood at the river’s edge like some enlightened statue, draped in softness and mystery. Calm where there was once chaos. That twisted grin replaced by a serene, unreadable expression. Hair smooth. Eyes steady. His magic… no longer a threat of deception, but something older. Rooted. Weighty.

He bowed.

But not to me.

Not to us.

To Pure Vanilla.

Interesting.

I lifted my chin just slightly, letting my golden headdress catch the light.

He says he’s found his “true self.” That this is who he was all along, buried under lies and illusions. Now he wears soft robes. Glows faintly like a shrine lamp. No drama. No theatrics.

Ugh. So boring.

But boring things can be dangerous.

Because what I saw wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t surrender. It was stillness—the kind you see in old ruins just before the wind shifts and the earth cracks open. There was power in it. Not like mine—loud, brilliant, bold—but ancient. Elemental. And far from extinguished.

That river isn’t just milk.

It’s magic.

It’s leverage.

And I intend to learn how to use it.

I smiled to myself, already calculating a dozen ways to coax, bottle, or barter that power.

The river changes those who enter it? Good.

One day, I’ll decide who gets to change—and who doesn’t.

Dark Cacao Pov:

He rose.

Changed—not by blade, nor by will—but by something older than either. The Yogurt River’s glow clung to him like a second skin, soft and sacred, brushing away all remnants of the phantom he once was. The ectoplasm, the trickster grin, the deceit that curled through every word—washed away. What stood in its place was something quieter. Still. Supposedly true.

My grip tightened on the hilt of the Grapejam Chocoblade.

It hummed in response—low, like thunder rolling beneath distant cliffs. The sword knew, as I did, that this moment was not a victory. It was a test.

Not of strength.
Of fate.

The Yogurt River had judged him. Pulled him into its current and returned him not broken, not twisted—but reformed. Awakened. And I do not take such things lightly.

I narrowed my eyes, gaze locking on the Cookie before me.

Gone was the haunted figure cloaked in ghost-light and whimsy. What now stood was serene—robed in soft pastels, his face calm, his Soul Jam beating without fear or shadow. There was no laughter, no mockery. Only acceptance. Like a wound that had closed and forgotten how it bled.

A rare path, this.

For deceit to become truth.

And yet…

I do not believe such transformation comes without a cost.

There is always a price. Whether carved in soul or sealed in silence. Power does not shift so cleanly. Not without leaving something behind. Or… hiding something deeper still.

“Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie…”

I said it aloud, letting the name fall from my tongue like an oath—or a warning.

If this is his true name… then I will remember it.

But I will also remember what he was.

Because truth, like a sword left too long in shadow, may still carry rust beneath its shine. A clean edge may dull. A new name may crack.

So I will not forget.

Not his tricks.
Not his lies.
Not the way his laughter once turned the wind cold.

Truth must be honored.

But it must also be watched.

Always.

White Lily pov:

I couldn’t stop staring.

The river shimmered like a dream drawn into reality—milk-white, eternal, cradling the Cookie who once embodied lies and illusion. But the moment its light kissed his form, I felt it.

The shift.

The entire world seemed to breathe. Like the pages of history had turned on their own, as if fate itself had paused to watch. The winds grew still. Even time slowed, reverent.

From deceit… to truth.

The Cycle. The Legend.

Real.

I watched the transformation unfold—not as a warrior or ruler might, but as a scholar who had always believed, quietly, in things no one else dared call true. I saw the change not in his posture, nor the light in his eyes, but in the absence of shadow. He was no longer a fractured mirage, a specter of trickery sewn together by falsehoods and forgotten pain.

No.

He was whole.

He remembered himself.

An identity long buried beneath layers of illusion—unearthed by divine waters. The Yogurt River had not created something new.

It had restored something old.

Something precious.

“I am Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie…”

The words left his lips, soft as a memory, and my breath hitched.

My vision blurred. The corners of my eyes stung.

My heart ached.

With joy.

He had returned—not as a stranger wearing peace like a mask, but as his true self, revealed. It was not magic that shaped him—it was truth.

A truth strong enough to survive everything.

“I knew…” I whispered, voice trembling, barely audible beneath the hum of the river and the quiet awe that surrounded us. “I knew you weren’t lost forever…”

Because nothing—no curse, no lie, no shadow—could erase a soul.

Only hide it.

And now he stood before us again… found.

Mystic flour pov:

The wind stills.

Even the drifting leaves surrender to silence. My veil brushes softly against the earth, tassels swaying like wheat in the hush before harvest. The world quiets—not in fear, but in reverence. I feel it ripple through the air. Through the soul.

Change.

I open my eyes.

Across the riverbank, his laughter—once sharp, spectral, threaded with mischief—shudders into silence. The Yogurt River cradles him not like a punishment, nor a trial.

But like a mother.

Not devoured. Not erased.

Elevated.

I exhale slowly, watching the current glow around him like moonlight through milkglass. I do not speak. I do not need to. The truth unfolds without force. The moment pulses with ancient rhythm, a truth I’ve only felt in dreams and hushed thoughts left unspoken beneath my breath.

The Cycle lives.

Knowledge.
Deceit.
Truth.

I see it breathing through him. No longer a phantom cloaked in playful untruths, nor a being lost in trickery. The essence of his Soul Jam—once clouded, flickering between masks—now shines with clarity. Steady. Unshaken.

He bows his head. His voice, once a whisper curled in laughter, is now clear.

“I am Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie.”

I lower my gaze in return.

Yes.

Yes.

I see it now. Not just the change in appearance. Not merely the soft light that clings to him or the way his smile no longer curls with irony. His spirit… has settled. The milk no longer coils in trickles of doubt. It flows with certainty.

His essence has cleared.

Where once he drifted between form and illusion, now he stands as truth made whole.

I fold my hands gently, fingertips aligning into abhayamudra—the gesture of peace, of fearlessness, of reverence for that which is eternal.

He is no longer a trick of the eye, nor an echo of laughter.

He is no longer a phantom.

He is the answer.

Eternal sugar pov:

My heartbeat slowed.

Not with fear, nor tension, but in harmony with the river’s glow. The Yogurt River pulsed—not just around him, but through him. Through me. Through the threads that bind past and present, soul to soul.

And in that glow, I felt it—

The hum of memory.

The sound of destiny being rewoven.

He was no longer the trickster, no longer bound in riddled ribbons of deceit and whimsy. The jester’s eyes, once dancing with illusions and laced with things unsaid, had grown still. Not dulled. Not dimmed.

Clear.

He returned radiant—soft like sugared clouds drifting across an open sky. Gentle. Not lost. Found. His very presence, once erratic and tangled in layered meanings, now flowed like a steady stream. Smooth. Unbroken. Honest.

His smile no longer hinted. It spoke plainly.

I stared.
For a long time.

There was no rush. No need to speak. The stillness was sacred.

He bowed—not arrogantly, not theatrically—but truly. To Pure Vanilla. A gesture of quiet thanks. One that carried weight. Depth.

My fingers curled at my sides. My legs moved without command. One slow step forward. The earth didn’t tremble beneath me—it waited. Listened.

And I asked—not aloud, not with sound—but in the softest whisper only souls can hear.

“…Do you remember me?”

My voice never left my lips. But I knew he heard.

He turned.

And his eyes met mine.

That soft smile—so impossibly warm, so familiar—rose like morning light through mist.

He didn’t need to speak.

He remembered everything.

Silent Salt pov:

The light caught me right in the eye.

I squinted, muttering under my breath, adjusting the tilt of my hat like that’d do a damn thing. The air had turned thick—sweet and warm, like someone melted a dozen honey jars into the sky. Even the breeze tasted different. Too smooth. Too heavy.

Magic like this always comes with a catch.

I watched him rise from the Yogurt River, dripping in symbolism like a sponge that’d soaked up all the universe’s answers. Blue robes. Glowing aura. Calm like the sea before it decides to wreck your boat. He didn’t walk—he flowed, like he belonged in a mural some temple would charge pilgrims to look at.

And the eyes?

Too calm.

That wasn’t the Cookie who used to flit around like a milk-drenched poltergeist, whispering riddles and laughing from corners you didn’t even know existed. That wasn’t the shadow who left milky footprints on my deck and messed with the compass just for fun.

That voice?

That was a monk. A sage. A guide, if you believed in that sort of thing.

“I am Blue Berry Yogurt Cookie.”

Oh, wonderful.

I looked around.

Pure Vanilla looked like someone had offered him proof of every sacred scroll he ever read. Hollyberry was halfway between swinging her shield or pouring a drink. Burning Spice was twitching like he wanted to set the river on fire just to see what would happen. Even Mystic Flour had that little look of reverence she gets when ancient prophecy unfolds in front of her.

Everyone’s stirring.

Whispers, wonder, emotion.

Me?

I just sighed.

A long, tired, salt-crusted sigh that tasted like a thousand storms and one too many metaphors.

“...Great,” I muttered, scratching my neck. “Now we’ve got a river prophet.”

Pure vanilla pov:

He offered me… a handkerchief.

A handkerchief.

Embroidered in delicate blue thread, folded into perfect thirds, the edges hemmed with care. There was a faint scent clinging to it—lavender, soft and floral, like something pressed between the pages of a long-forgotten book.

I stared at it, blinking slowly, half-expecting it to dissolve into mist or sprout an eye and whisper riddles. My hand hovered midair, unsure if this was another trick wrapped in polite presentation. But no. It stayed.

Real.
Tangible.
Gentle.

I took it—cautiously. The fabric was cool and smooth between my fingers. No thorns hidden in the seams. No spells stitched into the thread. Just… kindness.

He was smiling at me.

Smiling.

Not with slyness, not with mockery or hidden meaning curled in the corner of his mouth. Just an honest, open smile. One that warmed instead of unsettled. One that invited.

My heart was still galloping from the battle, my breath uneven, my staff still clenched just a little too tightly. The world hadn’t caught up yet. It was still echoing with his former laughter, still haunted by his illusions.

And yet here he stood, peaceful and composed, offering comfort like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Peace begins with comfort, old friend.”

…Old friend?

My mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Old… friend?

My gaze flicked sideways, darting to the others.

Hollyberry was locked in a state of disbelief somewhere between a bark of laughter and a full mental shutdown. Burning Spice looked like he was seriously contemplating swinging that massive axe just to make the world feel familiar again. White Lily had tears in her eyes. Silent Salt was muttering something about prophets. Mystic Flour looked like she’d already begun writing a sacred hymn in her head.

And me?

I stood there holding a lavender-scented handkerchief from a Cookie who used to drip with ectoplasm and scream through walls.

I turned back to him slowly, my voice barely a whisper.

“...Help.”

Dark Cacao pov:

I stepped forward, each movement deliberate, the weight of my armor pressing into the sodden earth. My boots sank slightly into the damp ground with a familiar crunch, echoing the heaviness in my chest.

The battle had ended. But unanswered questions still stirred the air like ash after a storm.

I faced him—the Cookie once known as Shadow Milk, now dressed in soft hues and serene silence, as if rebirth had cleansed away all sin and nonsense alike.

“Explain yourself.”

The words came out rough. Intentionally. I let the steel in my voice be known. This was not a request—it was a demand. A command shaped by duty. There had been chaos. There had been transformation. Order must be restored.

I expected hesitation. A flinch. Even a flicker of his old mocking smile.

But none came.

Instead, he turned to me with a calm that felt centuries old. That same faint smile curved his lips, patient and unbothered—like he had anticipated this moment, down to the rasp in my throat.

“Your brow is far too tense, Dark Cacao,” he said, in a tone gentler than wind through a frozen orchard. “A bit of tea and moonlight will do wonders for your soul.”

I froze.

He just… said that to me.

To me.

In front of everyone.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye. Hollyberry had nearly choked on her own laughter. Pure Vanilla looked as though he wanted to crawl into the folds of his robes and disappear. Silent Salt was biting his knuckle to keep from snorting. Mystic Flour had a faint smile playing on her lips, and Burning Spice—

No. Not even he could believe what he’d just heard.

I looked down at my hand.

It was still curled tightly around the hilt of the Grapejam Chocoblade, ready to be drawn. Ready to remind the world that some things must be earned—not gifted by milk rivers and poetic timing.

And yet…

My grip loosened.

Not because I forgave him. Not because I believed him.

But because—

…Did I want to hit him?

Or take the tea?

...

Troubling.

HollyBerry pov:

I did what any reasonable, battle-tested, completely sane warrior would do when their chaos-loving ghost rival suddenly came back as some robe-wearing, soft-spoken, lavender-scented pacifist monk.

I smacked him.

Or at least, I tried to.

My gauntlet came down with all the strength of a thousand tavern brawls, colliding with his shoulder like a well-earned wake-up call. Should’ve knocked the peace right out of him.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t stumble. Didn’t even wobble.

He just looked at me—eyes calm, amused—and laughed.

Not a wild cackle. Not a taunting snicker.

A gentle, almost fatherly laugh. Like I’d just thrown a punch at a cloud and expected it to bleed.

“Anger clouds the heart, Hollyberry,” he said, like he was quoting an ancient scroll no one ever asked to hear. “But yours still shines like a hearthfire. Powerful… beautiful, even.”

...

I blinked.

Stared.

My shield, once held proudly at the ready, dropped a full inch.

“W–WHAT?”

That wasn’t fighting words. That was… that was poetry.

I felt my face flush. Just for a second. Just a moment. Definitely from the heat of battle. Or magic. Or sunstroke. Not because of what he said. I don’t blush. I don’t do swooning. That’s not my class. That’s not my style.

And yet…

My whole expression locked up in a frozen berry-red mess of confusion.

What in the berry-heck just happened?

One moment he’s a slippery shade laughing through fog, the next he’s complimenting my heartfire like he’s been reading romance scrolls in his spare time. In front of everyone.

I cleared my throat, shoulders squaring back up.

“Okay,” I muttered, flustered, “that’s enough enlightenment for one day—someone hand me a drink and a distraction, immediately.”

Burning Spice pov:

He looked at me.

Direct. Calm. Like he saw something in me I hadn’t invited him to see.

I growled, low and warning, enough to make the grass beneath my feet wither just a little.

He bowed.

I swear, I almost threw my axe. Just to see if he’d dodge with that same weird tranquility or let it hit him while spouting metaphors about rebirth.

Then he spoke.

“You carry the flame of transformation, Burning Spice. I hope one day you allow it to warm instead of scorch.”

I—

Nope.

I didn’t have time for that kind of philosophical nonsense. That wasn’t a compliment. That was a therapy session. I felt my jaw tighten like a vice, every tattoo on my dough lighting up with a flicker of heat I couldn’t place.

I stormed off.

Didn’t say a word. Just turned, flames kicking up behind me, boots cracking the mossy ground beneath with every furious step. Let someone else interpret the riddle-of-the-week. Let Pure Vanilla get misty-eyed about it.

Because me?

What am I supposed to do with that?!

What am I supposed to do when a Cookie I used to fight—enjoyed fighting—looks me in the eye and hopes for my healing?

Ugh.

The worst part?

Part of me listened.

Troubling.

Golden cheese pov:

I stood at a distance—arms crossed, weight balanced just so, crown gleaming in the sunlight like a warning flare—watching the absurdity unfold in real time.

There he was.

Beaming.

At the other Ancients.

Like he was giving out candy samples at a village festival instead of casually dismantling the fundamental laws of identity, truth, and magical resurrection.

He used to be a wild card. A liar. A walking, whispering, milk-drenched ghost who left trails of deception and existential dread wherever he went.

Now?

Now he’s wrapped in powder blue like a pacifist sorcerer, handing out sage advice and emotional affirmations like he’s our group therapist.

I hate it.

Mostly because...

It’s working.

Dark Cacao—Mr. Doom and Discipline himself—is actually considering the benefits of tea and moonlight. I swear his brow relaxed for a whole second. Pure Vanilla’s on the verge of a full-blown existential meltdown and clutching a lavender-scented handkerchief like it’s a sacred artifact. Hollyberry’s face is so red it looks like someone swapped her berries for beets. And Burning Spice?

Burning. Spice. Cookie.

Walked away. Without incinerating anything. Voluntarily.

The battlefield has officially been turned into a feelings circle.

And I’m just standing here, trying to decide if I should weaponize this new development or walk straight into the river myself and see what kind of soothing nonsense it gives me.

This isn’t a warzone anymore.

It’s a self-help retreat.

And worst of all?

He’s good at it.

White lily pov:

My heart swells.

Not from surprise, nor confusion, but from something deeper—older. A recognition that echoes through the very core of my being. I listen as he speaks, and the world seems to hush around him.

His voice is soft.
Not weak.
Soft like petals carried on a spring breeze, like the hush before a revelation. And beneath that softness—certainty. The kind that only comes from roots grown deep, fed by suffering, by truth, by time.

He is enlightened.

Alive.

Whole.

And I—I can barely breathe for the joy blooming in my chest.

This is what I have longed for. Not power. Not conquest. But growth. A world where Cookies are not bound to the roles they were baked into. Where even those steeped in shadow can rise, not in defiance—but in grace.

And he has.

He touches the others—not with illusions, not with deception or arcane sleight—but with something rarer.

Truth.

His truth.

And they feel it.

Dark Cacao, Hollyberry, even Burning Spice—they’ve changed. Not fully. Not loudly. But something in them shifted. A stone dislodged. A breath drawn deeper. A silence now filled.

My eyes burn.

Tears form, unbidden and unashamed.

He is not lost.

He was never lost.

He is becoming.

And in his becoming, I see proof—proof that even in a world carved by war and sorrow, the soul can still bloom anew.

Mystic flour pov:

He radiates clarity.

Not the harsh kind that blinds, but the kind that dawns slowly—soft and certain, like the first light seeping through fog. It does not demand attention. It invites it.

My veil flutters with the breeze as I watch from where I stand, distant yet present, hands folded in stillness.

The others flounder.

Some are confused. Some amused. Some shaken. They speak in half-thoughts and contradictions, struggling to make sense of what he’s become.

But I see it clearly.

He is no longer a mask.

No longer the illusion.

He is the truth beneath it.

The form he wears now—light-wrapped, serene, complete—is not something conjured. It is something uncovered. The self that existed before sorrow twisted it. The soul that waited, patient and silent, beneath the layers.

I nod.

Then bow.

Not to worship. But to honor.

“The river did not change you,” I say, voice as calm as still water. “It revealed you.”

He looks at me.

He does not speak. No riddles. No speeches. No confirmation.

But he smiles.

And in that silence—I know.

He knows.

Eternal Sugar pov:

I try to listen.

I do.

But I’m… overwhelmed.

His presence—once cold and dripping in ghostlight—is now gentle. So impossibly gentle that it unravels me more than all his tricks ever did. I don’t know how to stand in it. I don’t know how to breathe around it.

He speaks not like a shadow hiding in corners, but like some soft-shelled sage resting on a sugar hilltop, bathed in starlight and stillness.

Words meant to soothe.

Words meant for me.

“Your sweetness carries sorrow, Eternal Sugar. Do not fear it.”

I flinch.

Not visibly. Just enough that my eyes shift away from his. Enough that the sugar lining my thoughts begins to melt.

How did he know?

I never told him.

Not when he was a phantom circling my dreams, not when we stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, not when I watched him fall into the Yogurt River, unsure if I should grieve or brace for more trickery.

But he knew.

He knows.

I turn my face just slightly, letting the light catch only my profile, hiding the tremble in my gaze.

His voice still echoes in my chest, syrup-slow and painfully kind.

I want to respond.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

Silent Salt pov:

I sat on a rock.

Just… sat. Watching.

There he was, floating around like a cloud-shaped therapist, handing out comfort like it was some kind of buffet. Smiling that serene, all-knowing smile like he’d swallowed a philosophy scroll and found it delicious.

He patted Mystic Flour’s hand like a kindly uncle. Told Eternal Sugar her sorrow was sacred. Complimented Burning Spice and lived.

Unreal.

I glanced over my shoulder, past the Ancients, past the battle-worn grasses, to the cult of darkness—the little group of his old followers. The ones who used to chant in riddles and write weird poetry about milk dripping between dimensions.

They were standing there, huddled, completely losing it.

One of them mouthed: “We need to dunk him back in.”

Another nodded, dead serious, already holding a rope like they were prepping for some emergency reverse-baptism.

Honestly?

I kinda respect the hustle.

Because this?

This is terrifying.

He used to haunt the shadows. Now he’s haunting our emotional boundaries. Before, he’d drain the light from a room. Now he’s lighting candles and asking if we’ve tried self-reflection.

I chewed on a piece of dried kelp and sighed.

“Yeah,” I muttered, “this might be worse.”