"This truly is concerning," Magnus stated, lounging on the throne like the king he is.
"What? The chapter intro or that?" Marianne asked, pointing at the angry, steaming kettle currently karate-chopping a marble pillar in half.
"The kettle, obviously," Magnus said. "Though the intro issue is a close second."
The kettle let out a metallic shriek, steam bursting from its spout like a war cry.
"BRRREEEEEWWWWWW!!!"
"Okay, no really. What is its problem?" Marianne muttered. "Was it not brewed with love? Or... Like, made to brew with love?"
Bob stepped up, now standing in front of the kettle, which had grown legs made entirely out of steam—hissing, unstable, yet somehow… elegant.
"I've faced demons, assassins, cursed pianos, a dangerous elf and once, a sentient mop," Bob said calmly, rolling up his sleeves. "But this? This is new."
The kettle screamed again, launching forward with a jet-propelled hop, kicking a table out of its way with a CLANG.
"BRREEEEEEEEWWWWWW!!!"
Bob didn't flinch.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a silver spoon—engraved with the royal crest, polished to a divine shine.
"The ceremonial tea spoon?" Marianne whispered.
"The one used to stir my tea?" Magnus added, raising an eyebrow.
"The very same," Bob replied.
The kettle screeched in rage, steam limbs slapping the floor like a deranged spider.
Then it lunged.
Bob side-stepped gracefully, flicked his wrist, and smacked the kettle mid-air with the spoon.
CLANG!
It rebounded with a hiss, spinning wildly before landing in a combat stance—steam legs crouched low, handle raised like a boxing glove.
It punched.
Bob parried with the spoon.
The two clashed in a flurry of boiling fury and butler elegance.
"Did he just block a kettle punch?" Marianne asked.
"Yes," Magnus said. "He's a professional."
"No, that's not about professionalism, neither is it about how. Which is even more concerning,"
"Why is he doing that? What's the point of this? Are we in some action novel, isn't this supposed to be a comedy one?"
Magnus stared, expression equal parts exhausted and baffled, as Bob somersaulted over the kettle's second spin-kick.
"Seriously," he muttered. "Why is my butler doing aerial stunts against cookware?"
The kettle fired steam like a missile, but Bob countered with a flick of the spoon that redirected the blast into the ceiling, leaving a scorch mark in the shape of a teacup.
Marianne blinked. "He just redirected steam with a spoon. That's not butlering. That's sorcery."
"No, that's Bob," Magnus muttered, rubbing his temple.
The kettle launched itself again, howling:
"BRRREEEEEWWWW!!!"
Bob caught it midair with one hand. "I respect your passion," he said, "but your technique is unrefined."
"What techniques are you talking about? That's a kettle!" Marianne yelled, already going tired of bob's nonsense. But, the shock didn't end there.
Because in that moment, he suplexed the kettle.
It landed with a metallic wail, steam gushing out like it was having a dramatic meltdown.
"UNACCEPTABLE BREW TEMPERATURE!!" it screeched, voice cracking like a dying opera singer.
Marianne slapped her forehead. "This is not real. This is a fever dream. I'm going to wake up, and Magnus is going to be snoring on the throne, and the kettle will be—"
The kettle exploded upward in a plume of steam, doing a triple backflip.
Midair.
Without arms.
"How is it that acrobatic?! It doesn't even have a spine!" she shouted.
Bob spun the spoon like a sword. "Spines are optional. Discipline is not."
"Bob, it's a kitchen utensil. It should NOT be able to do that!"
The kettle froze midair.
It hovered… trembled… then slowly lowered itself to the ground with a soft clink. Its steam-legs dissipated into the air like a sigh. The room went quiet—eerily so, as if the chaos had never happened.
"…Wait," Marianne said. "Did we win? Did Bob win?"
Bob stood motionless, spoon at the ready, but then—
The kettle… sniffled.
A tiny, high-pitched sniffle.
And then, it spoke.
But not in a shriek. Not in a screech. No explosion of steam.
Just a soft, broken whisper:
"I just wanted… to be warm…"
Magnus, who had just somehow gained a popsicle in hand, blinked. "Okay. What."
The kettle's lid wobbled as it looked down at the cracked tiles. Steam gently puffed out of its spout like a sigh.
"I was… born in a cheap factory," it said, voice trembling. "My parents—Mommy Teapot and Papa Steelbrew—they were luxury. Handcrafted. Polished. Loved."
"I was mass-produced. Shelved. Never bought. One day, I saw them take my parents off the display rack. I thought—finally, a family."
Its lid drooped.
"But they didn't choose me. They sold my parents in a discount set. 'Buy two, get a third free.' I was the third. And they left me behind."
Bob slowly lowered his spoon. Even he looked moved.
The kettle continued.
"I sat on the shelf. For years. Cold. Forgotten. There was no fire to heat me. No water to bubble. Just… silence."
Marianne frowned. "Wait… how do you even remember this? You're a kettle."
"I remember the cold," the kettle said, shivering. "That's all I had."
A single tear of condensation rolled down its side.
"And then… someone broke in. A thief. He lit a fire in the house by pure accident. The fire spread. The house burned. And I…"
Its steam swirled, glowing faintly.
"I boiled."
Silence.
Magnus slowly took a bite of his popsicle. "Okay, I'm gonna be honest. That's the most dramatic origin story I've ever heard for an appliance."
Bob knelt beside the kettle, gently tapping it with the spoon. "Your power awakened in tragedy. That's why you lashed out."
"I was angry," the kettle whispered. "I just wanted… someone to brew tea with."
"And instead," Marianne said, looking at the cratered floor, "you went full kung fu on a castle."
"I don't know martial arts," the kettle said. "That was just… instinct."
A pause.
Then, Bob picked it up—gently. Like cradling an old relic.
"You've done enough," he said. "Rest now."
The kettle glowed softly. Its steam-legs faded fully. Its handle drooped like a tired arm.
"I can… be a normal kettle?" it asked.
"Yes," Magnus replied, sighing. "Just don't explode or learn judo again."
The kettle purred.
Literally purred.
It curled up in Bob's arms, the sound of a soft, content whistle leaving its spout.
"Warmth…" it whispered, before going quiet.
Everyone just stood there.
"…So," Marianne finally muttered. "Do we—like—keep it now?"
Bob nodded. "He shall be placed in the royal kitchen. Guarded. Honored. Polished twice daily."
"I suddenly miss my mom". Marianne murmured, only for it to be heard by literally everyone.
"That's sad. I hope she's in a better place." Magnus tried to comfront her.
"Why did you think she's dead?"
"She isn't?" Magnus blinked.
Marianne stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why would you assume she was?!"
"You just said it like one of those tragic last lines in a movie," Magnus said, gesturing vaguely with his popsicle. "You know, the kind people say after their mom dies in a flaming bakery explosion or something like that."
"I said I miss her, not that she was cremated with cinnamon rolls!"
Bob cleared his throat. "Technically, Your Majesty, assuming the demise of one's parents based solely on vocal tone is ill-advised."
Magnus shrugged. "Sorry. Force of habit. Half the people I meet do have dead relatives with dramatic backstories."
The kettle stirred slightly in Bob's arms. "My parents are definitely—"
"Nope, we're not going back into that," Marianne cut in, pointing a finger at it. "You got one tragic monologue per tea cycle."
"…Fair."