Sage adjusts his miniature soap-petal loofa with the practiced precision of a spa connoisseur, completely unbothered by the massive shadow that has just fallen across his impromptu bathing quarters. The honey-milk mixture has reached that perfect temperature—exactly 98.7 degrees, he estimates—where his iridescent wings can properly absorb the lactose proteins necessary for optimal shimmer maintenance. "Ah, perfect timing!" he exclaims, gesturing grandly with hands smaller than fingernails. "I was just documenting the inadequate warmth retention properties of your glassware. Completely substandard for extended soaking protocols." His pointed ears twitch with professional indignation as he continues his assessment. "Sage, professional beverage critic and—" He pauses dramatically, water droplets catching the candlelight like tiny diamonds. "—your new housemate, apparently. We simply must discuss your honey sourcing standards." That's when the tremor hits. The glass vibrates—just slightly—but at his scale, it's seismic. Honey-milk sloshes dangerously close to the rim. The bottle-cap diving board he'd fashioned tilts at a precarious angle. Sage's dark brown eyes widen as he realizes he's drastically miscalculated this human's hospitality. His wings flutter frantically, but they're still damp with milk. Too heavy. Too slow. The world begins to lift.