The rain came in sideways that night.
Clouds churned like boiling milk, and the café lights flickered, giving the evening a strange, theatrical drama. It was the kind of night that begged for a villain to enter, preferably through a window with a cape and a questionable accent.
Instead, someone came through the back door.
The bell didn't chime.
Which was strange.
It always chimed.
Sabel—still technically the prince, but fully in Barista Battle Mode™—looked up from the counter. He was halfway through experimenting with a chili-rose-cinnamon fusion. His instincts prickled.
"Percy," he called softly to the sleeping parrot perched on the chandelier. "Did you turn off the bell again?"
No answer.
Just a quiet creak.
And then—crash!
The storage cabinet exploded open, beans everywhere. And standing in the center of it all was a masked thief clad in black, armed with twin daggers and way too much attitude.
"Well, well," Sabel said, stepping out from behind the counter and tying his apron tighter. "What do we have here? A cappuccino bandit? The Decaf Dagger? The Mocha Menace?"
The thief didn't reply.
He dashed forward with stunning speed—daggers flashing in the low light, aiming straight for Sabel's chest.
Sabel, of course, wasn't fazed.
With a flick of his hand, he summoned a magical coffee shield—dark, swirling roast energy with cinnamon swirl edges. The blade bounced off with a satisfying clang.
"Oh," Sabel grinned. "You are spicy."
The Caffeinated Clash
The fight was a dance of pure absurdity and style.
Sabel spun, dodged, and retaliated with everything in his bizarre magical arsenal. Coffee beans became sharp projectiles. Steam hissed and coiled into ropes. The espresso machine exploded into distraction foam, and at one point, a whipped cream creature rose and shouted, "Defend the café!"
"Didn't even know I programmed that," Sabel muttered.
The thief flipped, slid, and slashed, clearly trained in something beyond your average thief-ing. Their movements were too clean. Too royal.
Sabel ducked under a roundhouse kick, somersaulted across the floor, and landed perfectly—latte foam still perfectly styled in his hair.
"You're too good," he muttered. "Way too good."
And then—he grabbed a broomstick and spun it behind his back.
"Time for Plan B: Sweeping Monologue!"
He lunged. Knocked the daggers from the thief's hands. With a smooth flick, he kicked one leg, tripping the intruder into a giant bag of caramel beans.
And pinned them down.
Mask off.
Silence.
It was a face he knew.
"…Miran?" Sabel blinked.
The thief—no, spy—groaned. "Ow."
"Miran, you used to be in my palace guard!"
"Correction," the spy muttered. "Still am."
The Real Roast
As the storm raged outside, the café turned into a war zone of spilt beans and magical scorch marks.
The prince-now-Sabel sat across from Miran, sipping a very passive-aggressive cup of black coffee.
"So let me get this straight," he said. "My father sent you to spy on me?"
Miran winced. "He's worried. Said your letters sounded too 'whimsical.' Also you spelled 'statecraft' as 'steakraft.'"
"That was on purpose," Sabel said with a dramatic flip of his spoon. "It was metaphorical. I'm crafting states of mind."
"Right," Miran said, still rubbing his bruised shoulder. "Look, I didn't mean to actually hurt you. I was supposed to 'observe,' not duel your coffee spirits."
Sabel sighed.
Then laughed.
Then threw a donut at him.
"Well, congratulations. You failed as a spy but earned a free loyalty card. Ten more attacks and your next punch is free."
Miran smiled faintly. "So… you're not mad?"
"Oh, I'm furious," Sabel grinned. "But I also respect your commitment to the bit. I mean, you fought me with twin daggers over a coffee vault. That's dedication."
Awaken the Mischief
By morning, the storm had cleared.
The café smelled of singed pastries and slightly burnt victory. Percival had come down from the chandelier to supervise repairs with dramatic squawks.
As Miran prepared to leave—back to the palace, perhaps with a few extra bruises and one mystery chili latte recipe tucked into his coat—Sabel stood at the door, arms crossed.
"Tell my father I'm alive. Tell him I'm caffeinated. And tell him next time, just send a letter."
Miran nodded.
"Also," Sabel added, tossing him a tiny espresso shot, "next time you sneak in… wear a better mask. That one was hideous."
With that, the spy disappeared into the morning mist.
Sabel turned back into the café.
Picked up a broom.
Surveyed the disaster zone with a proud sigh.
"Feathers, magic, chili, and betrayal. Just another Tuesday."
And somewhere in the wind, the prince within him chuckled, already planning tomorrow's nonsense.