The villa had barely recovered from the Popocalypse when the first frost crept across the tiles. It slithered silently, curling over chair legs, coating the counters in a sheen of icy rebellion. The butter drips hardened into butter-icicles. Even the pigeons, still mourning Saint Fernando, shivered as feathers puffed up like popcorn kernels refusing to pop.
The freezer groaned open on its own. Inside, the cartons stirred.
Out they came.
First: King Rocky Road, crowned in a jagged scoop of chocolate shards, draped in marshmallow scepters. His eyes gleamed like cold, cruel cherries.
Beside him slinked Duchess Mint Chip, frosty breath misting the air, smelling faintly of toothpaste and betrayal.
The twins, Neapolitan, squabbled as usual—Strawberry, Vanilla, and Chocolate never agreeing which side was superior.
And finally, the most dreaded of all: The Sorbet Syndicate, citrus assassins, silent and merciless.
The Ice Cream Council had awoken.
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