Chapter Text
The Fount of Knowledge knelt in silence, his knees slowly sinking into the yielding softness beneath him. The material gave way just enough to cradle him. His back was straight, his hands folded, and his lips moved in a whisper.
He prayed in a language long forgotten.
Each syllable curled into the air, fragile and reverent. It was not a language recorded in any scroll he had studied, nor etched into the countless archives he had devoted himself to preserving. No, it was older than that.
It was the language his mother had taught him when he was no more than a freshly baked cookie.
The chamber around him was vast and silent. Darkness pressed in from every corner, broken only by the pale, silvery glow of moonlight pouring through a towering stained-glass window. The glass shimmered faintly, its colors muted in the night, yet still hauntingly beautiful.
It depicted women—tall, elegant, sorrowful.
She had long, flowing white hair that seemed to drift like mist, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She wore a great, crooked hat. Her expressions were full of grief and knowing. As if she carried secrets too heavy for the world to bear.
The Fount exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him heavy and tired.
He had been doing this for days.
Praying. Waiting. Hoping.
And receiving nothing in return.
His shoulders sagged slightly as the last word of the prayer faded into silence. Disappointment settled into him like a familiar ache. He had thought—no, he had hoped—that she would answer.
But now…now he could not help but think he had been naive.
“I should have just jumped into the river,” he muttered under his breath.
The yogurt river of endless knowledge.
The thought lingered in his mind, as tempting and dangerous as ever. To plunge into it would mean understanding. Just true, boundless understanding. No more unanswered questions, that his creator refuses to share with him.
Just clarity.
But that would come with a cost.
He pushed the thought aside with effort and placed his hands against the ground, rising to his feet.
“I’ve wasted enough time,” he said quietly.
He turned, ready to leave the chamber behind, when…
“Oh, my dear Fount of Knowledge.”
The voice froze him in place. It was gentle and achingly familiar. He stiffened, then slowly turned his head.
“First Milk…” he replied.
The words came out clipped, something that might have been a greeting, though it lacked warmth. His eyes flickered toward her for only a moment before shifting away, deliberately avoiding her gaze.
“I am deeply sorry for taking so long to answer you, my child,” she said, her tone soft with apology. “But as you can see, I am very busy at the moment.”
As if on cue, a small, fragile cry broke through the stillness. Then another. The Fount frowned slightly and finally lifted his gaze.
What he saw made him pause.
First Milk stood before him, radiant even in the dim light, but instead of her usual composed presence, she was…struggling. In her arms, she held not one, but five small bundles of dough, each wriggling and squirming. Tiny cries filled the air as she attempted—rather unsuccessfully—to balance them all at once.
For a moment, he simply stared. Then curiosity began to creep in.
He stepped closer.
From a distance, he could already tell they were different. Each of the small dough figures bore subtle distinctions—variations in color, texture, even scent that hinted at their origins.
As he approached, First Milk shifted slightly and extended one of the babies toward him.
“Here,” she said.
He hesitated for only a second before taking it.
The weight was…lighter than he expected.
The baby in his arms had soft, slightly messy dirty-blonde hair and tan dough, faintly golden under the moonlight. Tiny freckles dotted his cheeks and nose, and on his forehead rested a small, star-shaped mark. A faint scent of vanilla rose from him.
The Fount studied him carefully.
“A Vanillian,” he murmured.
Judging by his size and development, the child was perhaps a week old—no more. The Vanillian tribe was still relatively new, only a few hundred years into its existence. He had read about them extensively, of course. His gaze flicked briefly to the others still in First Milk’s arms. He recognized hints of cacao, cheese, and other emerging civilizations.
Interesting.
“They were all left at my temples in Crispia,” First Milk began softly.
He turned his attention back to her, though his arms instinctively adjusted to better support the baby.
“Some of their parents died in battle,” she continued. “Others… their kingdoms fell to illness. The older cookies brought them to me, hoping I could help.”
Fount's expression tightened slightly.
“And what,” he asked, his voice sharpening just a bit, “am I supposed to do with this?”
He knew he sounded rude. But he didn’t care. He was tired. Exhausted from waiting, from praying, from hoping for something…something meaningful between them. He had not come here to be handed…babies.
This had been a mistake.
“I want you to take care of them,” she said immediately.
The words hit him like a blow. The color drained from his face.
“What?”
First Milk inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
“In normal circumstances, I would do it myself,” she said. “But…”
“But?” he pressed, his irritation rising.
“But First Cream Cookie and the others are preparing for a ritual,” she explained. “In a few days, a rare meteor will pass over our planet. According to First Cream, it is an opportunity—a chance to increase our power in a way that may not come again for a very long time.”
Her gaze drifted away briefly, uncertain.
“I know what I am asking of you is…a tremendous task.”
The Fount barely heard the rest. Something tugged gently at his finger. He blinked and looked down.
The baby.
Two small hands had wrapped around his finger with surprising strength. Slowly, the child’s eyes opened—soft, mismatched hues catching the faint light.
And then, he smiled.
It was small and uncertain, but still a smile regardless.
The Fount froze.
He had read about smiles, of course. Expressions of happiness, comfort, trust. He understood them. In theory, at least.
But this…
This was different.
Something in his chest shifted, warm, unfamiliar, and almost overwhelming. The frustration, the anger, the exhaustion, they all seemed to dissolve, replaced by something softer.
A strange, fuzzy feeling spread through him, settling deep in his chest, as the child kept playing with his fingers.
He did not have a word for it.
“I will take care of them,” he said.
The words came quietly, but without hesitation.
First Milk blinked in surprise.“Really?”
“Yes.”
He adjusted his hold on the baby, more carefully this time.
“Oh, how wonderful,” she said, relief flooding her voice. “I knew you would love them.”
He wasn’t so sure about that.
“Also,” she added, her tone turning slightly apologetic again, “before I forget—you will not be able to communicate with me during the ritual. I will need to focus all of my power.”
The Fount frowned slightly. That part, he very much didn't like. But before he could speak, she was gone.
Just like that.
The chamber fell silent once more. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the empty space where she had been.
Then, he woke.
The familiar surface of the altar pressed coldly against his head. The chamber remained the same.
Except…he wasn’t alone.
He sat up slowly. There, in front of him, lay five small bundles of dough.
Unfortunately, the quiet didn’t last very long.
At first, it was just a soft shift, one of the babies wriggling slightly where they lay. Then another. A faint whimper broke the silence. Then a cry. And as if the others had been waiting for permission, all five began at once.
The sound filled the chamber in seconds. It echoed off the high walls and curved ceiling, turning something small into something impossibly loud.
The Fount let his head fall back slightly.
“I just put you down,” he said, voice thin with disbelief.
The babies, unsurprisingly, did not care. The crying only grew louder.
He dragged a hand down his face, already feeling the beginnings of a headache pressing behind his eyes. For a brief, dangerous moment, his thoughts flickered back to the yogurt river.
“…No, focus.” he said again, firmer this time, as if arguing with himself.
Babies cried when they needed something. He knew that much.
“…Hungry,” he concluded.
Yeah that made sense. It probably had been some time since—well, since anything.
He pushed himself up with a quiet groan, robes shifting around him as he moved. He crouched down and carefully gathered them, one by one at first, then two, then attempted all five at once. They were warm entirely uncooperative, squirming in ways that made holding them feel like trying to carry water in his hands.
One nearly slipped.
He caught it quickly, heart giving an unexpected, sharp jolt in his chest.
“…Stay still,” he said under his breath, though his grip immediately softened afterward.
Eventually he managed to secure all five against himself. One tucked into the crook of his arm, another balanced carefully against his chest, two more supported by his hands, and the last pressed gently between them.
“I need to find a better system for this.” he muttered.
The crying did not stop.
“Yes, yes, I hear you,” he added, irritation slipping into his voice. “I am actively addressing the problem.”
He turned and began walking.
The Spiral of All Knowledge responded almost instantly. The space around him shifted, long corridors bending and shortening as if eager to assist. Shelves of ancient texts slid silently aside, archways realigning to create a clear path forward.
At least someone was cooperative today.
Once inside the kitchen, he gently placed them down on the desk. It wasn’t ideal—far from it—but it would have to do for now.
“I really need proper furniture for this.” he muttered, making a mental note.
The babies continued to fuss, their cries overlapping into a chaotic melody. Fount turned toward the freezer, already thinking several steps ahead. He retrieved the milk product, measuring it carefully before adding water. He heated the mixture, watching as it warmed, then poured it into small bottles.
Turning back, he assessed the situation.
One of them was crying louder than the others.
“Ah, you, come here.” he said, reaching for the little cheese cookie.
She squirmed in his hands. Without hesitation, Fount guided the bottle to her mouth. The change was immediate. The moment the milk touched her lips, she latched on, drinking eagerly.
“Well, someone was certainly hungry.” he observed.
She drank fast, surprisingly fast. One bottle was gone in moments. Then another. And another. Three in total before she finally slowed, her small body relaxing as satisfaction replaced urgency.
Fount blinked. “That was…impressive.”
He was about to praise her more when a realization struck him.
“They don’t have names.”
The thought settled heavily in his mind.
First Milk had never told him their names.
Which meant…
“I have to name them,” he said softly.
A strange feeling coursed through him. Something unfamiliar, that made his chest feel oddly tight. Anxiety, yes, but also excitement. Even as the holder of all knowledge, this was something he had never truly done before.
He knew every plant, animal and cookie's names in this world. He explained the meaning behind them. Shared them.
But created them?
Never.
Usually, the Witches would arrive—sometimes in person, sometimes in dreams—bringing news of new creations. New plants. New creatures. New life. They would name them, define them, and he would pass that knowledge along.
Even he and his fellow Virtues had not named themselves at first. It had taken his sister to suggest that perhaps they needed something more than titles.
Something personal to call each other.
That was how he became Blueberry Milk.
And yet, even that had not come from him.
This time, however, it would.
He looked down at the little cheese cookie, now calm and drowsy in his hands.
She had short, yellowish hair. Her eyes were sharp—far more expressive than one might expect—and there was a lively energy in the way she moved, even now. Small wings rested against her back, twitching occasionally.
He had seen many winged cookies before, but never one so young. It sparked a cascade of thoughts. Development timelines. Flight instincts. Potential risks.
“I should practice levitation spells again,” he murmured. “Just in case.”
The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt.
She reached up suddenly, tiny fingers grasping at his glasses, tugging them slightly out of place.
“Oh—hey now.” he said, amused.
She let out a small, satisfied sound.
“A bold one, aren’t you?” he teased. “A very…rich personality.”
He paused. Then smiled.
“I know. Rich Cheese.” he said softly, tapping her nose.
The name felt right.
Next was the cacao cookie.
He had long black hair, with a single white streak cutting through it. His eyes were a deep purple, giving him a perpetually grumpy expression.
And true to that look, he resisted.
He turned his head away. Refused the bottle. Even squirmed when Fount tried to hold him properly.
“Oh, come on now,” Fount said gently. “You’ll feel better if you eat.”
It took time.
But eventually, curiosity—or perhaps simple hunger—won. The moment he tasted the milk, his resistance faded. Slowly, reluctantly, he began to drink.
Fount smiled faintly.
“There we go.”
He studied him for a moment.
“Bitter Cacao,” he decided. Though, under his breath, he added a nickname as well. “Mister grumpy face.”
He gently pinched the baby’s cheek before setting him back down.
The next one proved… more complicated.
She had long white hair, soft as silk, and striking red eyes that seemed almost luminous. But the moment the bottle approached her, she recoiled and then began to cry.
Not just cry, there was a scent.
Sharp and intense.
Fount froze.
“…What?”
His mind raced.
Poison?
Some plants developed chemical defenses—scents, toxins, signals to deter predators. Could this be similar? His concern deepened quickly.
While poison would not affect him as a Virtue, the babies were another matter entirely.
“I need to be sure.”
With swift precision, he drew a magic circle in the air. It shimmered faintly, intricate and precise, before settling over the child.
He waited.
The result came back.
Negative.
He exhaled. “Good.”
Then he noticed something else.
There were two results.
“An other one…?”
He turned quickly to the berry cookie nearby. A second scan confirmed it—also negative.
Relief washed over him.
“So it’s a defense mechanism,” he concluded.
After some gentle rocking and quiet reassurance, the white-haired baby calmed down enough to eat.
Fount studied her carefully.
“Regal Lily,” he said at last.
It suited her. Elegant, delicate, and strong in its own quiet way.
The berry cookie came next. Vibrant, lively, with colors that hinted at something wild yet refined.
“Hollyleaf Redberry,” he named her. “Like little princesses.”
Finally, there was the last one.
The vanilla boy.
He was already calmer than the others, his small form relaxed in Fount’s hands. His eyes blinked slowly as he drank.
He looked…peaceful. Soft in a way that made something inside Fount shift.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” he murmured.
Halfway through feeding, the little one drifted off to sleep, the bottle slipping slightly as his breathing evened out.
Fount felt something warm bloom in his chest.
“…Vanilla Orchid,” he whispered.
When all five had been fed, named, and finally settled into a sleepy calm, Fount gathered them once more into his arms.
They were heavier now or perhaps he was simply more aware of them.
Either way, he held them carefully.
“Time for bed,” he said softly.
With that, he turned and began making his way toward his chambers, the Spiral already shifting to guide him.
And this time, he didn’t mind the weight as much.