The sleepy town of Meadowlark began to stir, waking from its nightly slumber. The morning sunlight crept in through the shops’ shed windows, bathing the interior wood with a warm glow.

The oldest Lark, Peregrine, was already stationed in the fields, the smell of breakfast wafting through the air. As Peregrine poured orange juice into wooden mugs, their friends—Kingsley, Cole, and Clémente—shuffled outside, itching at the promise of delicious breakfast.

Clémente's sheep-like nose twitched, their wide, silver eyes falling onto the food preparation. Cole's gaze was trained on Kingsley, but they glanced between the other two periodically. "Oh, Peregrine, you are too kind," Clémente gushed, smiling softly. "You know you don't have to be obligated to make breakfast every morning!"

Peregrine reached for the butter, a knife in their free hand. "I don't mind it," they chuckled. “I mean, you all are a hungry lot—"

Cole's soft voice interjected. "Ki- Kingsley, what are you—?"

The Lark realized too late that the little pest started shoveling pancakes and bacon into their mouth. Pandemonium broke out, chaos happening simultaneously—Cole and Clémente working together to pry the two away; Peregrine wrestling with Kingsley; Kingsley cackling all the while, little bits of char and fluff falling out of their mouth.