It didn't take long.
Whatever magic Woodie was weaving through the colossal tree, it was working wonders. Thick roots twisted and curled with practiced ease, crafting seventeen identical wooden keys—each one molded from nature and precision.
"Master, are we good?" Woodie chirped, eyes wide with hope, clearly fishing for praise.
John picked one up and ran his fingers along its surface. Smooth. Balanced. Perfect.
He smirked, "Well, my good girl… You really make me proud this time." His voice softened—rare, genuine. "Now I can say without a doubt—you've mastered your skill. Congratulations, my dear."
Then he turned toward the rest of the flock, voice raised.
"Why am I not hearing anything? Go on—Woodie here achieved something extraordinary. No nonsense now. I'm speaking."
There was a beat of silence. Then a chorus of chirps erupted—clumsy, mismatched, but sincere. Cheers and whistles echoed from the Alpha birds. Even Bubble, usually deadpan, gave a hearty puff of respect.
