Morning in Woolly Glade began with three sounds:
a kettle whistling, Blu chewing something inappropriate, and Windel screaming,
"Don't touch that!"
Blu froze mid-bite, a spoon of honey halfway to his mouth. "What this time?"
"The adhesive prototype!" Windel shouted from his workbench, a hand coated in translucent goo. "It's not edible!"
Blu squinted. "It's on toast."
"It's on everything!" Windel waved his sticky hand. "This is the future of construction—one drop can hold a house together!"
"Or your breakfast," Blu said calmly. "Progress tastes sweet."
Windel glared. "Blu, if you eat that, you'll stick your tongue to your soul."
Blu shrugged, licked the spoon anyway, and instantly regretted it.
His jaw locked. His eyes widened. "Mmph—mmmhh!"
Windel facepalmed. "Congratulations. You've become art."
He grabbed a solvent flask labeled Dissolve, Maybe, poured a little on Blu's mouth, and pulled gently. The sound it made was halfway between a kiss and a sneeze.
Blu gasped, "You're welcome."
Windel sighed. "You're impossible."
"Then we're even," Blu said, rubbing his lips. "By the way, the door's stuck."
Windel turned. The workshop door shimmered faintly with the same glue. He frowned, then grinned sheepishly. "That's… fine. It's a controlled test."
Blu pointed. "Controlled by who?"
Windel didn't answer. Instead, he inspected the glue sample jar on the shelf. Empty.
His pupils shrank. "Uh oh."
⸻
Outside, chaos was brewing. The main path through Woolly Glade had turned into a sticky mosaic of footprints, leaves, and feathers, gluing half the morning traffic into a slow, irritated sculpture.
A small lamb dangled from a tree branch, bleating with philosophical despair.
Two elders tried to free their hooves with butter. Someone else yelled, "Fetch Windel!"
Windel gulped, peering through the (still-stuck) door's crack. "Okay. Damage control mode."
Blu followed, grinning. "You want me to bring the solvent?"
"Bring two. And a rope. And snacks."
"Why snacks?"
"In case we don't make it back by lunch."
⸻
The scene outside was tragicomedy at its finest.
Sheep, carts, and a goat named Fin were all half-anchored in glue. Every attempt to move made a new sound—shlup, pop, shlick—like a choir of embarrassed shoes.
Windel knelt to test the consistency. "Oh, good. It's evolving."
Blu offered him a biscuit. "For strength?"
"For last rites," Windel muttered. "I used concentrated glow-sap as a binder—this glue is technically alive."
"Alive?"
"It wants friends. That's why it won't let go."
Blu waved at the trapped villagers. "It has plenty."
Windel sighed, then turned serious. "Okay, we'll fix this. Gently."
He pulled out a vial of blue solvent. The air shimmered; the glue hissed, reluctant but responsive. Slowly, the first few sheep wobbled free, looking dazed but intact.
Then thunder rolled from the ridge.
Windel's ears drooped. "Oh, no. He's coming."
⸻
Sure enough, Gravon arrived, umbrella slung over one shoulder, tail flicking.
Behind him trudged Rina, holding a pot big enough to cook a stubborn apology.
The wolf engineer looked down at the sticky chaos, then at Windel, then at his own boots.
He sighed. "I knew peace wouldn't last."
"It's an experiment!" Windel said quickly. "A temporary adhesive for windmill repairs!"
Gravon stepped forward—and immediately stuck one paw to the path.
He looked at Windel without blinking. "Temporary?"
"…Depending on weather."
Rina snorted. "He's going to molt early."
Blu whispered, "Don't laugh, don't laugh," and then laughed anyway.
Gravon lifted his paw. The glue stretched like caramel and refused to release him. He muttered something in Wolfish that sounded like a threat against physics itself.
"Hold on!" Windel said, pulling a solvent flask. "I just need—"
The moment he poured it, the glue fizzed, burped, and spread wider.
Windel froze. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," Gravon said grimly. "It's breeding."
Rina folded her arms. "That's what happens when you mix ambition and sugar."
"Not sugar—" Windel started.
"Metaphor," Rina said. "Don't talk."
⸻
The situation escalated. The glue, now agitated, began a slow, deliberate crawl toward the river. Panicked bleats rose from the crowd. If it reached the water, the entire downstream valley would be sealed under a shimmering, sticky film.
Windel's mind raced. "Think, think—glow-sap polymers… they're resilient to most solvents, but they must have a weakness to something stable, something that won't react…"
Gravon's ears twitched. He crouched, observing the glue's movement. "It avoids the gravel patch. The crushed moonstone in the mix… Still-dust," he stated, the solution clicking into place. "Its neutralizing field disrupts magical bonds. But we'd need a lot."
"How much is 'a lot'?"
"Enough to make Rina faint."
"I'm already dizzy," she said dryly, but her eyes were sharp. She pointed with her ladle to a spot where the glue thinned. "It flows around the big rocks. It seeks organic matter. Throw the dust ahead of its path, not on it. Cut it off."
⸻
They raced to ShadowHowlHold's forge. Inside, the air shimmered with heat and soot. Gravon shoveled still-dust from a barrel, gray sparkles clinging to his fur. Windel carried buckets, tripping only twice.
Blu, now sporting several new glue footprints, followed. "So the plan is: throw magic dirt at the hungry slime?"
"Strategic application of mineral resonance," Windel corrected, hefting a bucket. "Be respectful."
They returned to a grim sight. The glue lake had expanded, now holding three benches and half a chicken captive (the chicken, for its part, seemed unbothered). Its leading edge was alarmingly close to the riverbank.
"Now!" Gravon barked.
Working in sync, they began flinging still-dust not just onto the glue, but in a wide arc between the sticky mass and the river. The dust swirled, hissed, and where it landed, the glue recoiled and dissolved into harmless, sparkling mist.
Blu, caught up in the moment, grabbed a small bag and joined in, narrating: "And so the heroes fought the shimmering menace with… fancy sand!"
Windel shouted, "Less commentary, more concentric circles!"
Blu ignored him. "Look! Even the chicken's impressed!"
The chicken blinked slowly, unimpressed.
⸻
When it was over, the path was free again—sparkling faintly like moonlight on sugar.
Sheep cheered. Children ran across the clean stone, their hooves clicking happily.
Gravon brushed dust off his coat. "You're lucky I keep a well-stocked forge."
"You're lucky I provide such interesting challenges," Windel shot back, grinning through his exhaustion.
"I'm lucky lunch is still warm," Rina declared, pot in hand. "Come home, before someone decides to glue the dessert."
Blu stretched, grinning. "See? No harm done. The valley's safe, the wolf's unstuck, and Windel's hair looks like a festival lantern."
Windel blinked. "What?"
Blu pointed. Windel's wool was streaked with gray sparkles of still-dust, glowing faintly.
He looked like a walking constellation.
Gravon let out a rare, low chuckle. "You might start a trend."
"I'd rather start a nap," Windel said.
"Then glue yourself to a bed," Blu offered. "Efficient."
Windel groaned. "Never talk again."
Blu patted his shoulder in sympathy—then realized his paw was still slightly sticky.
They stared at their now-adhered hands.
"Don't," Windel warned.
Blu grinned. "Oops."
Rina sighed, the sound rich with fond exasperation. "Dinner's getting cold. You can argue attached."
⸻
That night, Woolly Glade glowed faintly under the moon, paths glittering with harmless residue.
Windel sat outside, notebook on his lap, Blu beside him (still attached).
He wrote:
Day three: The glue worked too well. The valley survived. The wolf helped again. Rina sees everything.
Conclusion: Disaster may be the universe's way of saying hello.
Blu leaned over, reading. "And the moral?"
Windel smiled. "Don't test glue before breakfast."
From the ridge, a low, familiar voice carried on the wind—Gravon, probably shouting something at his forge.
Windel looked toward the sound, warmth sneaking into his grin.
He raised their stuck-together hands in a mock salute. "Goodnight, Grumpy Genius."
Blu added, "Goodnight, walking caution sign."
Windel elbowed him lightly. The stars above blinked like laughing eyes.
And somewhere between the sheep hills and wolf cliffs, a quiet friendship stuck fast—
stronger than any glue he'd ever make.
End of Chapter 3 — Next: "The Perfect Trap (Maybe)"