The cobblestone streets of Aquacorde glimmered beneath a morning drizzle. Market stalls were being unfolded, steam curled from café windows, and Wingull circled lazily overhead. It was, for all intents and purposes, an ordinary day

Until a trumpet blared

The sound did not come from any marching band, but from a Chatot perched dramatically atop a fountain “Announcing Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Disguises, the Queen of Glamour, the Ever-Sparkling Charlotte Bourreau!” the bird declared in perfect, lilting mimicry

The townsfolk froze mid-step. A few turned, expecting a parade. What they got instead was a swirl of satin and glittering silver heels striding through the mist

Duchess Ditto emerged like a stage light come to life—her cloak trailing in a flourish, tiara gleaming, jeweled cane tapping rhythmically against the stones. She smiled as though addressing an invisible audience

“Good people of Aquacorde!” she proclaimed, spreading her arms “Her Royal Highness graces you with presence, do you not agree, darling?”

A few people blinked. A florist dropped a pot. The mayor, half-awake and still holding his morning coffee, mumbled, “Oh no...not again.”