The pancakes had been a disaster.
Not because of any magical mishaps or dimensional pantries—though Kai had insisted on checking the flour bag for "suspicious glowing" before they started—but because none of them could actually remember how to make pancakes from scratch.
"I'm almost a thousand years old," Marcus had muttered, staring at the lumpy gray mixture in the bowl. "I've conquered kingdoms. I've witnessed the rise and fall of empires. And I cannot figure out why this batter looks like wet cement."
"Maybe we need more milk?" Samantha had suggested, bouncing Nova gently as the baby watched the proceedings with what could only be described as judgmental fascination.
"We've added three cups already," Callum had pointed out, his sleeves rolled up and flour somehow streaked across his cheekbone. "At this point, we're making pancake soup."
