The garden of the Eastern Wing – Mid-afternoon
While the maids bustled inside preparing for the banquet, Horace was on a mission. Not a divine mission. Not a cosmic one.
No.
A bird-chasing mission.
The sleek, shadow-coated feline slunk beneath a hedge with the calculated silence of a seasoned assassin.
"Meow."
(Translation: Target in sight.)
A sparrow pecked innocently at breadcrumbs.
Horace's ears twitched. His tail swished like a whip. He crouched. Waited.
"Mrrrow."
(Translation: You have chosen death.)
Then—POUNCE!
The bird squawked and flew off in a burst of feathers. Horace flipped mid-air, landed dramatically, and let out a proud—
"MEOW!"
Except…
Another cat had been watching.
A chonky orange tabby.
Their eyes locked.
The tension was biblical.
"Meeeeoooow." Horace hissed.
(Translation: Back off, Garfield.)
The tabby arched his back and fluffed up like an angry pillow.
"MEOOOOWWW."
Horace stood his ground. He was no ordinary alley cat. He had licked Ophelia's tears and once slept on a celestial manuscript.
"Meow meow meow."
(Translation: I fought a demon yesterday. I'm not scared of a bread-fed house cat.)
With a dramatic sideways hop, Horace lunged. The cats rolled. Feathers flew. A flowerpot shattered.
From a balcony above, Ophelia leaned over with wide eyes. "HORACE?!"
Horace looked up mid-wrestle, a flower petal stuck to his ear.
"Mow."
(Translation: I got this.)
The tabby fled.
Horace stood victorious, chest puffed, fur slightly ruffled. He turned around, lifted his tail like royalty, and sauntered off—
Right into a puddle.
"MRROW!!"
(Translation: Betrayed by nature!!)
Ophelia sighed and shook her head, laughing as he sprinted inside to find a dry pillow, leaving a trail of muddy pawprints behind him.