It began, as all catastrophes do, with a peaceful night.
The café was closed, the customers gone, and the stars twinkled politely over the sleepy little town. Sabel, for once, was doing something normal: sipping warm mint tea in bed while reading "101 Ways to Fake Being Responsible." His parrot companion, Percival, sat perched on a coat hook nearby, already dozing with one eye open—just in case a truth needed telling in the middle of the night.
"I'm actually kind of relaxed," Sabel mumbled, finishing his tea. "No exploding muffins, no talking carrots, no magical goats. Just peace."
He jinxed it.
Because exactly seven minutes into his sleep, he was yanked awake by a thunderous crash—followed by the sound of someone humming the national anthem backwards and glass shattering like a rainstorm.
Sabel bolted upright. "Percy?"
Silence.
Then a loud, exaggerated "CAW-HAW-HAW!" echoed from downstairs, followed by thuds, flapping, and what sounded very much like someone trying to juggle pickles.
Sabel staggered down the stairs in his pajamas, stepping over a fallen chair, a knocked-over sack of coffee beans, and what might've once been a pie.
In the middle of the chaos stood Percival—the truth-sniffing parrot—sleep-flying, eyes closed, wings flapping erratically. He was snoring and causing an avalanche of cutlery.
"PERCY!" Sabel hissed, ducking a flying spoon.
"Lies! LIES!" screamed Percival mid-snore, knocking over a sugar jar. "The queen never liked coffee!"
"He's sleep-rampaging again," groaned Sabel, dodging a falling lamp. "Last time he almost proposed to the broomstick. I knew I shouldn't have let him nibble that enchanted donut…"
Percival zoomed in dizzy loops, knocking a painting off the wall. "Tell the muffins I regret nothing!" he cried dramatically.
Sabel grabbed a saucepan, not to attack, but to use as a shield. "Why is he always more dramatic than me while unconscious?!"
The parrot dive-bombed a stack of teacups, somehow rolling midair and bouncing off a chair like an over-caffeinated pinball. Flour exploded. A broom danced.
The café was officially haunted by chaos.
Sabel tried everything.
Gently clapping? Didn't work.
Splashing him with tea? Just made Percy yell "It's raining betrayal!"
Singing lullabies? Resulted in a chaotic chorus of "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH" and wild flapping.
Finally, Sabel did what he hated most.
He asked for help.
Rosemary—half-asleep, hair in a giant bun of wrath—stormed in with a ladle and a sleep charm scroll.
"What now—is the kitchen haunted again?"
"It's the parrot!" Sabel shouted, ducking another plate. "He's sleep-truthing!"
Rosemary sighed, rubbed her eyes, and muttered a spell.
Percival flopped midair like a deflated balloon and floated softly into Sabel's arms, snoring peacefully.
The room was a mess of broken ceramics, spilled flour, dancing broomsticks still jittering in the corner, and a very annoyed prince covered in sugar and regret.
"Thank you," Sabel whispered. "You're the best."
"I'm billing you," Rosemary replied. "And him too."
The next morning, Percival awoke with a squawk and a very sore wing. He blinked at the chaos, at the spoon hanging from a chandelier, and at Sabel glaring at him while sipping strong black coffee.
"Did I—?"
"Yes," said Sabel with a deadpan tone. "You confessed the café's wallpaper was actually a lie, insulted three muffins, broke six cups, tried to kiss a mop, and told a saltshaker it wasn't worthy of love."
"Oh," said Percival. "Did I win?"
Sabel threw a croissant at him.
Thus ended the great sleep-rampage. But from that day forward, a small sign was hung above Percival's perch:
"If I start sleep-talking, throw toast. -Percy."
And Sabel? He just started locking his bedroom door. With double charms. And a backup pan.
Just in case.