No one pnted the melon.

  Miss Pattertwig was quite clear on that, and she’d been gardening longer than most people had been alive (and longer still if you counted the people she’d outlived on purpose). Her cucumbers were orderly, her carrots were drilled like a military ptoon, and the beans knew better than to slouch.

  So when a melon appeared overnight in the middle of the cucumber row, rge, striped, smug, she assumed, quite sensibly, that it was either divine punishment or a prank by the neighbor’s boy.

  She poked it with a rake. It hummed. Then it twitched.

  It was at this point that Miss Pattertwig made the bold but reasonable choice to close the gate, go back inside, and make herself a strong cup of something hot and fortified. By morning, the melon was gone. And the cucumbers were appuding.

  The KnighteningBergspire was a town that prided itself on tradition, especially when it came to their annual Procession of the Pompous, also known as the Royal Parade of Valor and Bureaucratically Authorized Heroism. Every year, someone got knighted. It didn’t really matter who, just as long as there were trumpets.

  This year, the trumpets were te. This allowed just enough time for a sentient watermelon, roughly knee-height, bearing a face of crudely defined features and two stout, stomping legs, to accidentally roll into the ceremonial pza.

  It wore a red cape.

  The cape had no visible means of attachment. It simply was, billowing behind the melon like it had dramatic thoughts about destiny. It fluttered when there was no wind, rippled inside buildings, and once spped a goat.

  Why Bergspire? That part remains debatable. Some say he was drawn by the parade itself, as a being of tent purpose might be. But others point to the Crystal Larder, Bergspire's ancient, magical vault of preserved foodstuffs. For over four hundred years, the town had been magically freezing, sealing, and cataloging everything from goush to gooseberry tarts. Perhaps, on some primal level, Sir Mellon, being an edible entity, felt the pull of a pce where food was not consumed... but enshrined. Safe. Remembered.

  Sir Mellon, not that he had a name yet, was, at that time, searching for the legendary beverage known as hot cocoa. He was driven not by hunger, nor thirst, but by an intrinsic, metaphysical longing. He would ter describe it as "the ache of unfulfilled comfort, like missing a memory you haven’t lived yet."

  This longing began earlier that morning, when he passed a bakery cart on the edge of town. A young boy had ordered a mug of hot cocoa, thick with cream and cinnamon, and as the steam curled into the air, it found Sir Mellon.

  He stopped dead. The scent danced across his senses, teasing and warm and impossibly perfect. He stomped closer, but the vendor, unaccustomed to sentient gourds, shrieked and threw a spoon. Sir Mellon retreated, unharmed but unfulfilled. He had no hands. No money. No way to sip. But he knew, down to his seed-filled soul, he wanted it. At that moment, however, he was simply following a promising whiff of cinnamon.

  He trundled up the stairs of the knighting stage just as the horn section arrived, and was promptly struck on the rind with the ceremonial bde of Duke Frumple III. A hush fell over the crowd.

  The duke squinted. "Er... was that the squire?"

  "Legal binding, Your Majesty," said the royal notary, who had already stamped the paperwork in a burst of over-efficiency.

  And thus was born Sir Mellon, Knight of Bergspire.

  He bowed, or at least leaned dramatically forward, and whispered, "I shall be worthy of the cocoa."

  The Trials of the Round ProduceSir Mellon, who still had no arms but a very expressive mouth, immediately took to his duties with all the enthusiasm of a vegetable having an identity crisis.

  He could not grip a sword, but he could kick a surprising distance.

  He could not write procmations, but he could nod solemnly while someone else did, which is all most knights really do anyway.

  His greatest challenge, however, was cocoa.

  Sir Mellon craved cocoa. He had never tasted it—his mouth was rgely ornamental—but somewhere deep in his watery pulp, he knew. Cocoa was the goal. The grail. The glorious hot liquid after a long day of fruit-based chivalry.

  This obsession led to several incidents, including:

  The Siege of Mugshire, where he stormed a café and drowned in marshmallows.

  The Duel of the Spoons, in which he was bested by a toddler and a very wide straw.

  The Festival of Cups, which he mistook for a cocoa summit and was crowned “Miss Chalice 3rd Runner-Up.”

  Still, he persisted.

  That cape never stopped fluttering.

  The Gourd Moon Prophecy

  As Sir Mellon’s legend grew, so did the rumors. The High Druid of Nearbyshrubs cimed Mellon was born during the rare Gourd Moon, when the tides of fate dipped into compost and stirred old magic.

  Others whispered he was the reincarnated spirit of a forgotten harvest god, cursed to return as a fruit until humanity learned the true meaning of seasonal produce.

  Some suggested he was the result of a particurly misguided boob fairy spell, wherein a request for “melons” was interpreted far too literally.

  The simplest expnation was that the abundance of ambient magic in the Cone had warped a wafting watermelon seed.

  Whatever the truth, Sir Mellon soon had followers: a squirrel named Bertrand who carried a fsk, a bard who only pyed spoons, and a devoted fan club known as the Crimson Capes, who wore flowing red scarves and hummed dramatic music whenever Mellon entered a room.

  They were very tiring to dine with.

  The Great Slosh

  It all came to a head during the Siege of Sloshford, where a Crate Spider, giant, box-legged, and allergic to expiration dates, had invaded the vilge bakery and turned all the ecirs into hostages.

  Sir Mellon arrived te, having accidentally rolled through a toppled dessert cart on his way into town, and was now trailing whipped cream and destiny.

  The spider loomed.

  The cape rippled.

  With a mighty SQUELCH, Sir Mellon unched himself like a catapulted cannonball. He struck the spider in the thorax, bounced off the ceiling, rebounded off a shelf of dry goods, and nded in a vat of ceremonial cocoa prepared for the winter solstice.

  The impact caused a miraculous chain reaction of whipped cream, boiling milk, and heroic acoustics.

  When the foam cleared, the spider was tied in a ribbon made of bakery twine.

  Sir Mellon floated on the surface, bobbing like a victorious fruit.

  The vilgers decred him a saint.

  The cocoa was… unsalvageable.

  Epilogue:Of Cocoa and Capes

  Sir Mellon never did figure out how to drink cocoa properly. But that day in Sloshford, soaked to his seeds in whipped cream and heroism, he finally got his fill, by swimming in it. Was it the best cocoa in the Cone? No. It was a bit too nutmeggy, and someone had dropped a biscuit in it. But it was enough.

  For now.

  Because legends don’t end. They just set their capes, squint at the horizon, and find a new quest.

  Wherever injustice rises, Sir Mellon will roll.

  Wherever the weak are oppressed, or the strong need reminding that victory means little without kindness… Sir Mellon will stomp.

  Wherever a man needs to hear a long, unsolicited philosophical argument about the moral alignment of fish... Sir Mellon will be there.

  His cape will flutter.

  His rind will glisten.

  And somewhere, cocoa will tremble.