There were many things Milo had mentally prepared for as the new (reluctant) owner of Willow's Remedies. He had expected cranky villagers with back pain, confused tourists looking for miracle cures, and the occasional child trying to buy love potions "for a friend." What he had not prepared for—on any level—was a chicken that could hold a conversation better than most adults.
The day began normally enough.
Milo had made it a full fifteen minutes without falling asleep, which might've been a personal best. He'd even managed to brew a fresh batch of calming tea using chamomile, mint, and a mystery herb labeled only as "Maybe Lavender?" He was sipping it while reading an old herbal manual upside down (because he'd dropped it and couldn't be bothered to flip it), when the door flew open with the kind of drama that only meant one of two things: Luca, or a problem.
Spoiler: it was both.
"MILO!" Luca yelled, stumbling in with wild eyes and even wilder hair. "We've got a situation!"
Milo didn't look up from his tea. "If it's your neighbor trying to curse your tomatoes again, I'm not getting involved. Last time I ended up sneezing spaghetti for a week."
"No! This is serious. There's a man outside with a chicken. A talking chicken."
Milo blinked slowly. "Talking as in... clucking very expressively, or—"
"No," Luca said, dead serious. "It speaks. Like, with words. Human words. It just insulted my hat."
Milo sighed, set his tea down, and stood up with the energy of a retired sloth. "Fine. Let's go meet the chicken."
The moment they stepped outside, Milo knew this day was about to be weird.
Standing in front of the shop was a tall, lean man wearing flowing robes, a wide-brimmed hat decorated with feathers, and an air of intense mystery. Beside him, perched regally on a crate of wild carrots, was a plump white chicken with a monocle strapped over one eye and a small satchel slung across its back.
The chicken turned to Milo and said, in a crisp, dignified voice:
"Ah. So you're the boy. You don't look competent."
Milo blinked. "Did that chicken just insult me?"
"Yes," the man said with a nod. "Sir Beakley is quite opinionated."
"I have standards," the chicken added. "And this place smells like anxiety and underachieving."
Luca whispered, "That chicken might be your soulmate."
Milo ignored him.
The robed man stepped forward. "My name is Eldrin the Odd, traveling mage and collector of rare poultry. I've been cursed with a most perplexing problem, and I've heard your potions are... passable."
Milo frowned. "Did my grandma tell you that?"
"No," Eldrin said. "The chicken did."
Sir Beakley gave a smug nod.
Milo gestured vaguely at the shop. "Well, I guess come in. But the chicken stays off the counters. That's where I eat snacks."
Once inside, Eldrin explained the problem.
"I was experimenting with a new enchantment," he said, dramatically swirling his robe and nearly knocking over a shelf of cough syrup. "One meant to increase poultry intelligence. The idea was to have chickens assist in spellcasting. You know, magical backup dancers."
"And instead," Milo said, "you made a chicken that reads better than I do."
"Correct," said Sir Beakley. "Also, I've been writing a memoir. Working title: Plucked but Not Forgotten."
Eldrin sighed. "The issue is, Sir Beakley is now too intelligent. He refuses to lay eggs, demands royalties, and has unionized my other chickens. I need you to brew a potion that lowers his intelligence just enough so he stops correcting my grammar, but not so much that he forgets how to use a fork."
"I have many thoughts on proper cutlery," Beakley muttered, polishing his monocle.
Milo rubbed his temples. "So, you want a 'Smart-but-Not-Too-Smart Chicken Potion.'"
"Exactly."
Milo turned to his shelf of herbs, muttering to himself. "Right. So I'll need something to slightly dull cognitive function without erasing personality. Maybe a blend of daydream petals, forget-me-roots, and a hint of mellow moss?"
"You just made up two of those," Luca said.
"Yeah," Milo replied, "but they sound real."
While Milo rummaged through bottles, jars, and a suspicious bag labeled "Definitely Not Poison," Beakley strutted around the shop, critiquing everything.
"These shelves are uneven. The floor creaks. Your organizational system is a cry for help."
"Would you like to help me find the mellow moss, Your Featheriness?" Milo grumbled.
Beakley sighed. "Fine. But I demand payment. In sunflower seeds. Roasted."
After a chaotic twenty minutes of brewing, blending, and dodging Beakley's biting commentary, Milo held up a bubbling green potion in a flask shaped like a chicken foot.
"I call it... The Ego Equalizer."
"Sounds pretentious," Beakley muttered.
Milo handed it to Eldrin. "Give him two sips. Any more and he might forget how doors work."
Eldrin eyed the potion nervously. "And you're sure it's safe?"
"Nope," Milo said cheerfully. "But if something explodes, it'll be mildly entertaining."
Beakley took the flask in his beak, gave a theatrical sigh, and drank.
There was a loud pop, a brief flash of light, and then... silence.
The chicken blinked. Then looked around.
"Whoa," Beakley said, suddenly sounding far less posh and much more confused. "Dude, where's my monocle?"
Milo and Luca exchanged a look.
"He sounds... mellow," Luca whispered.
"Excellent," Eldrin said, scooping up the now-chill chicken. "Thank you, Milo. You have done what few mages could."
Beakley clucked softly, then added, "Do you guys have snacks?"
"Success," Milo declared.
As Eldrin left with his now-average intelligence chicken in tow, Milo collapsed into his favorite nap chair behind the counter.
"That," he said, "was possibly the weirdest customer I've ever had."
"You say that now," Luca said, kicking his feet up. "Just wait until the talking goat shows up."
Milo groaned.
And somewhere, in a nearby satchel, Beakley's unfinished memoir glowed faintly with magic...