Once upon a time, in a royal castle as tall as a giant’s stack of pancakes, lived a kind boy named Wyatt. The castle walls smelled like warm cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven, and the halls echoed with the *clip-clop* of the king’s shiny shoes. Wyatt loved his cozy room, where his blanket felt as soft as a cloud’s belly, but there was one thing he did *not* love—trying new foods.

Every evening, the royal chef, a round man with a mustache that wiggled like two caterpillars, would ring a tiny bell. *Ding-ding!* "Suppertime, young Wyatt!" he’d boom. And out would come plates piled high with foods Wyatt had never seen before. Tonight, it was broccoli—little green trees that smelled like damp grass after rain. Wyatt’s nose scrunched up. *Sniff-sniff.* "No thank you," he said, pushing the plate away. His tummy rumbled like a sleepy bear, but he’d rather eat his own socks than take a bite.

The next night, the chef brought *purple* potatoes, squishy as a jellyfish and smelling like earthy mushrooms. Wyatt’s fork clattered to the plate. *Clang!* "I’ll just have bread," he muttered, grabbing a crust so hard it crumbled like a sandcastle in the rain. The king, who had ears as big as teacups, sighed so loudly the chandelier tinkled. *Tinkle-tinkle.* "Wyatt, my boy, how will you grow strong like a knight if you don’t try new things?"

That night, as Wyatt lay in bed, his blanket twisted around him like a burrito, he heard a tiny *squeak*. A mouse—no, a *royal* mouse—with a crown askew on its head stood on his pillow. "Psst! Wyatt!" the mouse whispered. "I’m Sir Squeaksalot, and I’ve come to help! The chef’s broccoli is *magic*—it makes you brave! But you have to take just one bite." Wyatt’s eyes widened like two full moons. "Magic?" he gasped. Sir Squeaksalot nodded so hard his crown nearly fell off. *Plop!*

The next morning, Wyatt tiptoed into the kitchen, where the chef was stirring a pot that smelled like buttery sunshine. *Glug-glug.* "Chef?" Wyatt said, his voice wobbling like jelly. "I… I’d like to try the broccoli." The chef’s mustache did a happy dance. "Atta boy!" He plopped a tiny green tree onto Wyatt’s plate. Wyatt poked it. *Poke.* It felt bumpy, like a tiny dragon’s back. He took a deep breath—*sniff*—and popped it into his mouth. *Crunch!* It tasted… green. Like grass, but sweeter. His face scrunched up, then relaxed. "Hey! It’s not *bad*!" he said, grabbing another. *Crunch-crunch!*

Just then, the castle bells rang. *DONG-DONG!* "The dragon’s attacking the village!" cried a guard, his armor clanking like pots and pans. Wyatt’s heart pounded like a drum. *Boom-boom!* But then he remembered Sir Squeaksalot’s words. *Magic broccoli.* He stood tall, his chest puffed out like a proud peacock. "I’ll help!" he shouted. The king’s jaw dropped. *Clunk!*

Wyatt raced to the village, where the dragon—a grumpy but silly beast with scales that shimmered like spilled glitter—was huffing and puffing. *Whoosh!* Smoke curled from its nostrils, smelling like burnt toast. Wyatt didn’t run. He marched right up and said, "Excuse me, Mr. Dragon, but have you tried broccoli? It’s *delicious*!" The dragon blinked. *Blink-blink.* "Broccoli?" it rumbled. Wyatt nodded and held out a piece. The dragon sniffed it. *Sniff-sniff.* Then—*CHOMP!*—it ate the whole thing. "Mmm!" it said, its tail wagging like a happy puppy. "I *love* broccoli!"

From that day on, Wyatt tried *everything*—slimy okra that felt like a frog’s belly, crunchy carrots that tasted like sunshine, even squishy tofu that wobbled like a jellyfish. And every time he took a bite, he felt a little braver. The king threw a feast in his honor, where the tables groaned under piles of food that smelled like a rainbow. *Yum-yum!* And Wyatt? He sat at the head of the table, grinning like a cheshire cat, with Sir Squeaksalot perched on his shoulder, nibbling a broccoli crown.

The end.