The next morning, I was dragged out of bed by a half-naked man riding a centipede. Apparently, that was how Yvra’s family delivered invitations.
"Official summons to the Mother-Matriarch’s Broodfeast," the rider said, not breaking eye contact. "Attendance is compulsory. Resistance will be eroticized."
Before I could process any of that, he blew into a horn that sounded like someone gargling bees and vanished into the swamp mist.
Yvra was already braiding her war-hair. "Good news, love. You get to meet my mothers."
She adjusted the spikes on her ceremonial boots. "Seven of them. Each more horrifying than the last."
"They ate him. Tradition."
We rode deeper into the swamp, past boiling mud pits, whispering trees, and a suspiciously sexy statue of Yvra punching a bear. Mister Fog refused to come, citing "emotional allergies to backwater god-cults." Galrik had taken one look at the invitation and said, "Not even for science." Lilith was the only one who offered to join, but only so she could live-stream my suffering to a demon audience.
The Broodfeast was held in a cathedral made of bones and passive aggression. Inside sat Yvra’s seven mothers—each one a different brand of nightmare.
Mother I: A lizard-woman with a crown of wasps and zero patience.
Mother II: A floating nun who spoke only in riddles and pregnancy threats.
Mother III: A sentient fungus that made slurping noises every time I blinked.
Mother IV: Looked like a porcelain doll, but every time I looked away, she moved closer.
Mother V: A talking flame with 300 opinions and one bad attitude.
Mother VI: A giant snake that only hissed judgment.
Mother VII: Yvra herself... but older, scarier, and somehow always behind me.
Yvra knelt before them, and I tried to follow suit but accidentally tripped on a femur rug and fell face-first into a bowl of teeth.
"Your husband is clumsy," hissed the snake-mother.
"He is fragile," corrected the flame. "Like a moist rice cracker."
"W-well, technically I’m still alive," I muttered.
"Barely," added Mother III, bubbling ominously.
Mother I leaned forward. "State your purpose, husband of blood."
"Survive," I said. "Maybe nap. Possibly cry."
The Broodfeast was... an experience. Dishes included "Emotionally Flayed Duck," "Souls of the Unworthy," and something they called "Mommy’s Favorite," which was just a live eel soaked in bitterness.
The mothers took turns asking me questions. Every one of them was a trap.
Mother II: "How many children will you give us?"
Me: "How many do I have to survive to give?"
Mother IV: "What would you do if Yvra were possessed?"
Me: "Honestly? Probably just die and save us all some time."
Mother V: "What do you bring to this union?"
Me: "Snark. And chronic back pain."
The worst part? They liked me.
"Ohhh, he’s pathetic," Mother VI hissed lovingly.
"Truly spineless. Like a decorative worm," said the fungus.
"I haven’t seen someone so unqualified for survival since my third wife," added Mother I with a nostalgic sigh.
Yvra beamed like a schoolgirl winning an axe-throwing contest. "They adore you!"
I was shaking. My drink had teeth. The dessert screamed when I cut into it.
Yvra leaned over and whispered, "Next comes the dance."
"Oh yes. With the Eighth Mother."
"Oh, we don’t speak of her," Yvra said with a grin. "But you’ll know when you see her."
From the shadows, something giggled.
From the swirling blackness of what I hoped was incense and not, say, powdered ancestral remains, she emerged.
She wasn’t... visible, exactly. More like a ripple in reality. Her presence made my teeth itch and my skin develop a foreign tax bracket. Her shape shifted between a seven-foot woman in a ballroom gown and a crab made of mirrors. Every time I blinked, she was doing something new—playing piano, juggling wedding rings, breakdancing inside my trauma.
She reached out a hand that was definitely a hoof a second ago.
"Dance with me, worm," she said, her voice simultaneously echoing through the room and inside my colon.
She gave me a thumbs up. With blood on it.
I stood up. "This can’t be worse than Floor Seven," I whispered to myself.
The music started. A haunting, discordant melody played on swamp organs and what I could only assume were weaponized flutes.
At one point, I was upside down.
At another, I was a chair.
I don’t even know what dance form this was. It wasn’t waltz. It wasn’t salsa. It was closer to "interpretive hostage situation."
The Eighth Mother spun me violently, then whispered into my ear:
"I see your timeline, little man. You are a joke told by a dying god."
"Cool cool cool," I said through the blood in my teeth.
"Yvra deserves better," she hissed.
"She does," I coughed. "I’ve been saying that since Chapter One."
Not a normal laugh. A hurricane laugh. A laugh that shook the cathedral. The other mothers stiffened. The walls cracked.
And then, she stopped the music with a flick of her... elbow? Tail? Soul?
"This one lives," she declared.
And vanished into the floor like a bad decision.
The Broodfeast was declared a success.
As we rode back, bruised, bleeding, and spiritually exfoliated, Yvra looked at me with something dangerously close to affection.
"You impressed them," she said.
"That’s the standard," she said, wrapping an arm around me. "You did good, husband."
I stared blankly into the mist. "I think one of them laid an egg in me."
"That’s also tradition."
I sighed. "Can we go back to fighting dungeon monsters? That was less traumatic."
Yvra smiled. "Don’t worry. Tomorrow’s just a simple royal inspection."
"...And it’s being run by your ex."
I screamed into the swamp. The birds screamed back.