It began, as all strange things in the café usually did, with an innocent sneeze.
"AH-CHOOOO!"
And with that mighty gust from the parrot Percival, a cyclone of feathers exploded from the rafters like some avian fireworks display. A few landed gently in the chili coffee. One drifted into the prince's nose. Sabel got one in his eye and nearly threw his mug across the room.
"Why does it smell like sneeze and shampooed pigeon in here?!" Sabel shouted, wildly flailing with a broom.
"I believe," the prince said, dramatically standing atop a stool, "we have a feathery emergency."
"I sneezed the truth out," Percival said proudly, puffing his chest as even more feathers molted and scattered across the cafe like snow. "It's seasonal molt. Happens once every 29 moons and three dramatic monologues."
Rosemary walked in, took one look at the feathery chaos, and walked straight back out again muttering, "Nope. Not today."
Operation: Feather Fall
The café quickly became a feathery wonderland… or warzone, depending on your mood.
Customers kept walking in, slipping on feathers, and either:
Falling straight into chairs and ordering something hot in defeat.
Believing it was part of a "tropical magical bean forest" theme and taking photos.
Naturally, the prince declared: "We must lean into the madness."
He conjured up an illusion spell, transforming all the feathers into slow-falling golden lights. They glittered in the air like falling stars. He dubbed the new drink: Falling Phoenix Brew — a latte with a cinnamon feather design and too much whipped cream.
Sabel, still sneezing, said, "We're all going to suffocate in bird fluff."
"Not if we believe," said the prince, now covered in a robe made entirely of gathered feathers.
"Is that... a feather cape?"
"It's called 'plume couture,' thank you."
A Feather Too Far
The parrot, however, had gone full diva.
He strutted across the counter like a royal chicken, demanding things like:
A dedicated perch throne.
A personal fan to blow his feathers "just right."
A spa soak in lukewarm oat milk.
"Your molt is not an excuse to act like a feathery menace," Sabel groaned.
"It's not an excuse," said Percival. "It's a lifestyle."
As the hours passed, the feathers piled up.
One customer sneezed, turned to feathers, and dramatically declared, "I've joined the fluff dimension." They were given a complimentary decaf.
The Great Feather Bake
Amid the chaos, the prince got an idea. A very questionable one.
"What if we make feather cookies?" he declared.
Sabel blinked. "That's unhygienic. And illegal. Probably both."
"Not real feathers," the prince said. "Illusion-feather cookies! Tastes like cloud. Feels like triumph."
With a swirl of magic and a concerning amount of sugar, they baked cookies shaped like tiny feathers. Customers loved them.
"Do they make you fly?" one asked.
"No," the prince said. "But eat three and you feel like you're flying. Mostly from the sugar crash."
The Feather Flood Finale
Eventually, even the prince had to admit: it was too much.
The café was buried in fluff. The espresso machine was coughing up feathers. One of the stools had gained sentience and was trying to fly.
The prince stood on the counter, arms raised. "Enough!"
He cast a final, powerful wind illusion spell. A mighty breeze whirled through the café, gathering every feather and bundling it neatly into a floating feather cloud that drifted gently out the door and down the street.
The parrot stared. "That was my soul, you just swept out."
"You'll molt again," Sabel muttered, sipping his now de-feathered chili brew.
Peace at Last
That night, the café sparkled with magical calm. No feathers, no sneezing, no strutting birds with diva demands.
Rosemary returned, cautiously sniffing the air. "You de-fluffed?"
"Indeed," the prince said, proudly holding up a featherless croissant. "The storm has passed."
Percival sat in a bowl of warm oats, his feathers now tiny and new. "I feel... reborn. Also, mildly itchy."
The prince leaned back and sighed. "Today, we learned a valuable lesson."
Sabel raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
The prince looked thoughtful. "Always keep emergency brooms. And don't anger a moulting parrot."
Everyone nodded. Feathers, after all, are temporary. But the chaos they leave? Eternal.