The castle was in chaos.
Not the usual "ramyeon elemental in the courtyard" chaos, nor even the "meatball knight flattening the royal guards" variety. No, this was something far more terrifying.
Evangeline was pacifier-less.
And she was pissed.
The Holy Ladle of Saint Miso lay discarded on the nursery floor, thoroughly licked but ultimately unsatisfactory. Evangeline had spat it out after approximately three seconds of experimentation, her tiny face scrunching in betrayal.
"WAAAAAAAAH!"
The sound was not just a cry…..it was a weapon.
Windows rattled.
Portraits tilted.
Somewhere in the courtyard, a half-recovered Reginald dropped his noodle stretcher and clutched his ears.
"By the gods," groaned Duke Cassian, rubbing his temples. "It's like the Broth Titan all over again."
Duchess Meredith gritted through her teeth.
"Someone. Find. That. Pacifier."
The castle staff mobilized like an army under siege.
Lucien led a team of scholars, digging through ancient texts for "alternative soothing artifacts."
Current front-runner: A cursed teething ring that allegedly whispered lullabies in Infernal.
Cedric and Sir Loin combed the battlefield, sifting through noodle debris. The meatball had developed a concerning habit of absorbing smaller objects, and now contained two forks and a shoe.
Whiskerton, draped in a makeshift cape a napkin from last night's dinner, declared himself "Minister of Emergency Naps" and promptly fell asleep on the job.
Only Aunt Seraphina seemed unfazed. She leaned against the nursery doorway, arms crossed, watching the pandemonium with amusement.
"Back in my day," she mused, "babies chewed on cutlass hilts and liked it."
Evangeline responded by throwing a rattle at her head.
Far from the castle, in a damp cave that reeked of soy sauce and resentment, Gerard nursed a bowl of suspiciously glowing instant ramyeon.
His fellow broth cultists huddled around him, their hoods drawn low.
"The Evernights grow complacent," Gerard hissed. "Their heir is vulnerable."
A cultist raised a trembling hand.
"But sir… the meatball…."
"FORGET THE MEATBALL!" Gerard slammed his fist on the table, rattling the broth. "Phase Two begins now."
From the shadows, something stirred. A figure, wrapped in bandages that dripped black broth, stepped forward. Its voice gurgled like a clogged drain.
"I… hunger."
Gerard grinned.
"Good."
As night fell, Evangeline's wails had reduced to hiccuping sobs. She lay in her crib, exhausted, her tiny fists clenched.
The prophecy mark on her wrist throbbed weakly. Without the pacifier, the magic inside her felt… unbalanced. Like a pot left to boil over.
Whiskerton, awakened from his nap by the sudden silence, looked over the crib's edge.
"Finally," he muttered. "Some peace—"
Then the mark flared.
A shockwave of energy blasted outward, shattering the nursery windows. Whiskerton went flying, landing in a disgruntled stack above a startled maid.
And in the courtyard below, the earth cracked open.
From the fissure appeared the Brotherhood's newest weapon—a Broth Mummy, its bandages soaked in fermented darkness. It raised a dripping hand toward the castle, and the very air curdled with the stench of spoiled soup.
"EVERNIGHT… FEED ME."
Inside the nursery, Evangeline's eyes snapped open.
Her pacifier was calling to her.
And it was angry.