They traveled by toaster truck.

  Rond the Rye drove. Louie sat beside him in a wooden breadbox modified with seatbelts and garlic-proof locks. The Crumbkins bounced happily in the glove compartment, occasionally sneaking out to harmonize in buttery soprano.

  “Where are we going?” Louie asked, watching streetlights blur like sprinkles on a cake.

  “To the st safe oven,” Rond replied. “It’s hidden in the Breadnds—a pce where pastries, loaves, and rolls once lived in harmony.”

  Louie tilted. “Once?”

  Rond’s crust hardened. “It all changed when the Croissant Empire rose.”

  Louie blinked. “Croissants? But they’re… fky.”

  “Exactly,” said Rond grimly. “Fky, buttery, and full of themselves. Led by Supreme Butteryer Armand du Croissant, they seized control of the bakeries. They decred that only puffed, yered pastries had a right to be served. Simpler breads—like you and me—were cast aside. Toasted… or worse.”

  Louie gulped. “I didn’t know.”

  “No one does. The humans just see empty shelves, rising prices. They don’t know there’s a war in the pantries.”

  Just then, a fsh of light burst in the sky. A bagel-shaped drone hovered above the truck.

  “INTRUDER DETECTED,” it boomed in a crisp, buttery accent. “BY ORDER OF THE EMPIRE, SURRENDER YOUR YEAST.”

  “Hold on!” Rond swerved the toaster truck off-road and into a field of rolling oats. The bagel-drone fired sesame missiles. Louie ducked. The Crumbkins squealed and hurled tiny crust-bombs in return.

  BOOM! The truck jolted. Flour clouds erupted.

  They made it into a hidden tunnel—an old baguette smuggling route from the days before pre-sliced tyranny. The drone whirred away, defeated… for now.

  Inside the tunnel, they met the Resistance.

  A crusty band of outcasts—whole wheat warriors, gluten-free monks, a rye golem with a jelly bster, and even a rogue Danish.

  At their center stood a tall, elegant ftbread with a battle-scarred apron and a sourdough starter strapped to her back.

  She stepped forward. “I’m Captain Pita. You must be the one they call… Louie.”

  Louie looked around at the hopeful, hungry eyes of breads from every dough and denomination.

  “I didn’t ask to be a hero,” he said.

  “No bread does,” Captain Pita said. “But you’re here now. And we knead you.”

  A hush fell.

  Then Rond stepped forward and pced an old, wooden peel (a baker’s paddle) into Louie’s hands. Ancient runes carved along the handle glowed faintly.

  “Bread has risen before, Louie. But never like this. The time has come… for the Crustfall Rebellion.”

  Louie stood tall. Warmth rose from deep inside him—bolder than heat, stronger than jam.

  He nodded.

  “I’m ready to rise again.”

  To be continued...