The discovery of the impending sibling did not usher in an era of solemn maturity. Instead, it unleashed a new golden age of absurdity, as the two celestial beings and one snarky AI attempted to apply their profoundly flawed paradigms to the delicate art of preparing for a baby.

  Their first foray into “helping” was Lyria’s sudden craving for fermented glow-berries, a Night Elf delicacy known for its potent aroma and vibrant purple stains.

  “The maternal unit requires sustenance,” Azrael announced with the gravity of a general planning a siege. “We shall procure the sacred berries.”

  “Sacred, my ass,” Mammon cackled. “They’re the boozy ones! The ones that make your piss glow! This is the best craving EVER.”

  Kaelin, under the joint mission of “filial duty” and “acquisition of cool glowing stuff,” was dispatched to the market. The result was a masterpiece of social catastrophe.

  She approached the berry vendor, her face a mask of intense, conflicting purpose.

  “We require the… the luminous fermented spheres,” she declared, Azrael’s phrasing perfect.

  “Yeah, the fun ones! The purple go-juice!” Mammon’s inflection burst through.

  The vendor, an elderly Night Elf, raised an eyebrow. “For your mother, little Tempest?”

  IRIS, trying to be helpful, prompted: “Affirmative response suggested. Add politeness modifier.”

  Kaelin nodded sharply. “Affirmative. Please. Her womb-dweller demands the… the boozy sacred go-juice. It is a divine and shitty mandate.”

  The vendor stared, then let out a wheezing laugh, handing over the berries at a discount. “Tell Lyria her child is already a poet,” he chuckled. The mission was a success, though the doctrinal schism over the proper term for the berries raged internally for hours.

  Elandril, in a bid to include Kaelin, began teaching her to whittle a simple rattle. It was a disaster of theological proportions.

  Azrael approached the block of soft sun-pine with reverence. “We shall shape a symbol of soothing, harmonic resonance. A gentle orb.”

  “BORING!” Mammon seized control of their hand. “We’re making a weapon of psychological warfare! Sharp edges! Spikes! Maybe a tiny hidden blade!”

  What emerged from the wood over three afternoons was neither a rattle nor a dagger. It was a grotesque, lopsided figure that vaguely resembled a screaming owl with too many beaks. When shaken, it didn’t rattle; it emitted a dull, concerning thunk.

  “It is… unique,” Elandril said, turning the abomination over in his hands, his assassin’s eye spotting at least three potential pressure points for disarming a foe. “The baby will be… startled into silence. A tactical advantage.”

  Privately, he placed it on the hearth, declaring it “too potent a artifact for an infant.” It became a household god of bad craftsmanship, which Soot the cat worshipped daily by knocking it off the mantel.

  The pinnacle of their hilarious interference came during the visit of a master weaver to create a traditional blessing-blanket. Lyria sat, resting, as the weaver, an elderly Day Elf with patience like ancient stone, worked her loom.

  Azrael was enraptured. “Observe the interlacing of destiny! Each thread a potential, woven into a tapestry of protection!”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Mammon was bored. “It’s a rug. A tiny, boring rug. Where are the colors? The skull patterns? The hidden swear words woven in elvish script?”

  IRIS, sensing Mammon’s rising urge to cause chaos, attempted to redirect. “Suggestion: Offer a blessing for the blanket. A verbal contribution.”

  Both souls leaped at the idea, seeing a chance to imprint their essence onto the sibling’s life.

  “I shall bestow a blessing of celestial safeguard!” Azrael intoned.

  “I’m gonna give it a legit curse! For character!” Mammon countered.

  The weaver, smiling gently, invited Kaelin to speak her wish for the baby into the threads. Kaelin leaned close, her voice a tense, layered whisper as the three minds fought for the microphone.

  “May you… be safe from harm’s foul grasp…” (Azrael)

  “…and may you always find the best snacks and know how to steal them…” (Mammon)

  “…and may your cognitive development be optimal and free of logical fallacies…” (IRIS)

  “…and never get a stick up your butt…” (Mammon, overriding)

  “…but cultivate a righteous and moderately flexible moral core!” (Azrael, shouting over him)

  The weaver’s smile had frozen, her hands stilled on the loom. Lyria had buried her face in a cushion, her shoulders shaking with silent, hysterical laughter.

  The final blanket, when finished, was beautiful. But Lyria would forever swear that if you held it to your ear during a thunderstorm, you could faintly hear an argument about morality and snack theft.

  These comedic failures, however, were underpinned by the growing, genuine affection. They noticed Lyria’s fatigue, and without discussion, began a covert operation. Azrael would insist on “structured quiet time” (reading), which conveniently meant Lyria could nap. Mammon, whose idea of help was “distraction,” would drag Elandril into elaborate, pointless games of “shadow-tag” outside, giving Lyria peace.

  One afternoon, finding Lyria asleep in a sunbeam, Kaelin stood guard. Soot curled on Lyria’s lap.

  MAMMON: (Internally) Look at the cat. Freeloader. Stealing our mom’s warmth.

  AZRAEL: He provides silent companionship. It is a gentle service.

  MAMMON: We could provide better. We’re scarier. Better guards.

  And so, Kaelin spent the next hour standing rigidly by the couch, trying to mimic Soot’s alert but relaxed posture, resulting in a bizarre statue-like vigil that ended with her toppling over into a basket of laundry when her leg fell asleep.

  This day ended with the first flutter. Lyria, guiding Kaelin’s hand to her barely-rounded belly, held her breath. For a moment, nothing. Then, a faint, unmistakable ripple, like a fish turning in deep water.

  The sensation sent a jolt through all three occupants.

  AZRAEL: (Tremulous) A life. Uncorrupted. Pure potential.

  MAMMON: (Uncharacteristically quiet) Whoa. That’s… really in there.

  IRIS: “Biometric confirmation: Fetal movement. Statistical probability of future conflict over toys, parental attention, and moral guidance now exceeding 87%.”

  But Kaelin didn’t pull her hand away. She left it there, her wide, pupil-less eyes soft. The tiny kick wasn’t a philosophical concept. It was a nudge. From the inside.

  “Hello,” Kaelin whispered, the word simple, belonging to none of them and all of them.

  For once, there was no internal argument, only a shared, awestruck silence, listening to the future knock gently on the door of their chaotic, ridiculous, and fiercely loved world.