As transcribed (with frosted margins) by His Sprinkled Highness, Nutters the First, Squirrel-in-Chief of the Royal Dessert Society
Once upon a Tuesday that smelled suspiciously of burnt sugar and ambition, the courtyard of the Royal Cake Vault was transformed into a battlefield.Not one of swords or sorcery—oh no.This was far more dangerous.This was dessert battle.
At one end of the powdered-sugar arena stood Lady Petronella von Butterfrost, a descendant of ten generations of competitive pâtissiers—and a woman thoroughly possessed.Not figuratively.Literally.Possessed by an ancient pastry perfection spirit that had once been sealed inside a haunted éclair.
Opposite her—technically across a cobblestone circle dusted in icing sugar—stood her opponent:Mochi.Or more precisely, Mochi 2.0—now properly alive, recently re-humaned, and inconveniently still partially swan.
Her arms ended in majestic white wings—glossy, emotive, aerodynamic disasters responsible for at least three frosting mishaps that morning.
She flapped once. The wigs of two judges were immediately launched into the sky.
"AHEM," croaked Judge Hazelnibble, a monocled squirrel with an air of unnecessary authority. He cleared his throat with the gravitas of one who once judged a macaroon so perfect, a duchess fainted."The duel commences… now!"
A jelly bell rang. It jiggled in the air, let out a soft ding, and promptly dissolved into a lemon tart.
Round One: Presentation
Lady Butterfrost stepped forward, trailed by her monstrous Croissant Golem, which rumbled ominously like tectonic plates made of laminated dough.
She flicked a finger. The golem lumbered forward, revealing the Towering Mille-Feuille of Despair, layered with golden cream and crowned with a sugar-rose topper that softly moaned when leaned toward.
The squirrels clapped in reverent silence.
Then came Mochi.
Or better yet—Rael, wheeling her forward on a silver serving cart like a very sarcastic canapé.She flapped her wings, grinned with barely restrained chaos, and unveiled her dessert:
The Featherlight Fantasia.
A mousse so light it hovered, decorated with spun-sugar feathers and edible-ink paintings of her past lives (including her brief existence as a ferret accountant). At its core: a raspberry heart that pulsed gently when poked.
The squirrels lost it. One fainted clean into a crème brûlée.
Round Two: Taste Test
Lady Butterfrost hurled éclairs like javelins. They impaled their trays with a thunk of pastry doom.
Mochi, of course, insisted her dish be delivered dramatically.
Cue Rael juggling the mousse like a volatile grenade, ducking as the Croissant Golem tried to sit on him.
Judge Hazelnibble took a single bite—and immediately burst into tears.
"I see… sunflowers. My childhood hamster. My taxes—filed on time…"
Lady Butterfrost's expression soured. Her hair whipped into angry curls of whipped cream. Things were deteriorating. Fast.
Final Round: Chaos Bake
Ten minutes. No rules. One arena with a new theme every sixty seconds.
Rainstorm.Jungle.Zero gravity.Outer space.Underwater sushi bar.
Mochi, airborne and sprinkled with lemon zest, dive-rolled away from a fondant eel. Lady Butterfrost, wild-eyed, telepathically constructed an entire meringue castle with gritted teeth and spite alone.
Then—ding. The final bell.
Silence.
Judge Hazelnibble stood, eyes shining, paws clasped."By the holy nut... it is done."
He sniffed. He tasted. He pondered.Then, solemn as a sunrise, he declared:
"The Swan Girl wins."
Explosion.Squirrels screamed. Teacups chimed. Someone detonated a celebratory cupcake.
Aftermath
Lady Butterfrost shrieked, melted into a puddle of frosting, and was last seen haunting an irritable fruitcake in the West Wing.
Mochi, coated in sugar and eleven flavors of jam, approached the prize:A single, glowing macaron rumored to grant any wish.
She closed her eyes.
"I wish," she whispered, "to be fully me again. Swan bits optional."
Poof.
When the sugar-scented smoke cleared, she stood:No feathers. No wings. Entirely human.A cupcake-shaped medal around her neck. A look of stunned delight.
Rael blinked."You're… back."
"I always come back," she said brightly. "Like a bad soufflé."
He laughed.
Hazelnibble sobbed quietly into his napkin.
And somewhere, deep beneath the frosting-crusted floorboards, the Royal Cake Vault quietly vowed never to host another dessert duel……without magical insurance.