Birds were singing. Frogs weren’t vomiting. My back only hurt in three places instead of the usual five. I even woke up not screaming, which was a first.
"Today," I said to myself, adjusting my tattered robe, "is going to be a good day."
The Royal Inspection was a huge deal. Every survivor of the dungeon—meaning us idiots—was required to line up like well-behaved soldiers for review by King Wallrick’s top officials. The Empire needed to make sure we weren’t "feral, treasonous, or harboring illegal demon pets" (guess who failed that last one already).
The camp was cleaned. Everyone was in their best gear. I wore a suit someone drew onto my body with charcoal and optimism.
Galrik looked like a brick in a tuxedo.
Lilith wore a literal dress made of shadows and regret.
Yvra wore her ceremonial warpaint, a wolf skull on her head, and a frown that could bankrupt kingdoms. She looked like a barbarian wedding cake. It was majestic.
"Be on your best behavior," she muttered to me. "Do not embarrass me."
"I never do," I lied, as a button fell off my chest and knocked over a candle.
The Royal Envoys—a dozen knights in golden armor, a herald who wouldn’t stop screaming titles, and riding in at the front of the procession...
Sir Blayzeon the Unyielding.
He looked like a painting of a knight commissioned by a drunk poet. Hair like molten silver. Eyes that sparkled like they knew tax evasion. His armor shone so brightly I got a sunburn just looking at it.
"Behold!" he cried, tossing roses into the air. "We ride for the valorous! For the champions of the Ten-Floored Doom!"
Lilith leaned over to me. "Did he just rhyme ’valorous’ with ’doom’?"
"Don’t question art."
Blayzeon dismounted, tossed his shimmering cape to an assistant (who caught it and instantly fainted), and marched up to Yvra.
"Your battle record is impeccable, Lady Skullbreaker."
Yvra snorted. "Did you just call me by my maiden name?"
"It’s how you’re registered in the Royal Archives," he said smoothly. "Your husband’s name, I assume, hasn’t reached the charts."
Yvra looked at me. I waved.
My hand caught fire. I screamed and slapped it out with a loaf of ceremonial bread.
The inspection began. Everyone was asked to display a skill. Galrik crushed a boulder with his shoulder blades. Lilith summoned a sentient cloud of knives.
I... tried to juggle.
Except they weren’t eggs. They were frogspawn bombs left over from Floor Seven. Yvra told me to throw them away. But I kept them, thinking I could trade them for soup.
Mid-juggle, one exploded.
I lost both eyebrows.
Blayzeon’s cape caught fire. He didn’t flinch—just stood there, burning majestically.
The royal herald screamed and fell into the pond.
She just sighed, walked up to me, took off her bone necklace, and dropped it into my omelet pan.
"That’s the symbol of our bond," she said calmly. "I’m revoking it. By Squelchian law, you are now divorced."
She pointed at Blayzeon.
"You have cape insurance?"
"Perfect. I like that in a man."
As she walked off with the knight of glitter and credit scores, I stood in the mud, covered in yolk, shame, and burning herbs.
Lilith patted my shoulder. "Hey. At least she didn’t kill you."
"I’m gonna eat soap," I whispered.
After the Divorce Heard ’Round the Kingdom, word spread faster than I could apply ointment to my still-smoking eyebrows.
Apparently, in Squelchian culture, throwing your bone necklace into someone’s breakfast was legally binding. There was even a bard who immediately began composing "The Ballad of the Bone-Omelet Breakup." I heard the chorus. It slapped.
Worse, Sir Blayzeon—who had JUST met Yvra—took it in stride. Apparently, she liked "men with structure," and he literally had an Excel spreadsheet for duels. The man had Pivot Tables.
I tried to "win her back" by challenging him to a duel.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know the duel would involve chariot-ostriches and live grenade pinata sticks. Also, he brought three squires. One of them was a lawyer.
I tried to be mysterious and stoic.
Wore a cloak. Stared into a lake. Whispered lines like "the wind knows my pain."
The lake whispered back:
"Bro, she left you for a dude named Blayzeon. Wake up."
Even nature was clowning on me.
I went to the canteen. Ordered the strongest drink they had: a Fermented Floor Ten Jellyshot. It slapped me. Literally. It had hands.
"Maybe I wasn’t enough for her," I mumbled.
"You weren’t even half of enough," said Lilith, who had been sipping tea nearby. "But don’t worry. Everyone’s got a pathetic phase
"You’re wearing pants on your arms."
Day 3: The Royal Ball
As part of the inspection finale, the royal party held a grand feast-slash-masquerade ball. Fancy. Formal. Full of opportunities to humiliate myself in high definition.
Blayzeon was there, obviously. With Yvra. They wore matching outfits. He had a sword with hearts engraved into it. She had a matching axe that still smelled like bear.
I wore a suit stitched together from old tent canvas, dungeon rags, and what I think used to be a scarecrow. I tried to look dashing. I ended up looking like a haunted discount magician.
I walked up to the dance floor. Yvra was laughing. Actually laughing.
"She never laughed with me," I whispered to no one.
"That’s because you tried to build her a romantic mousetrap as a gift," said Galrik.
"I thought it was symbolic."
In a final desperate move, I asked the royal herald if I could make a toast.
He hesitated. "To what?"
I took a deep breath.
And proceeded to give a slurred, tearful speech that began with "I’M TOTALLY FINE" and ended with "IF ANYONE NEEDS ME I’LL BE MAKING OUT WITH A SWORD."
Then I fell into the soup cauldron.
Back in my tent, soaked in broth and shame, I curled up with a bucket of ice and listened to the faint sound of Yvra and Blayzeon laughing under the moonlight.
Lilith poked her head in. "You done?"
"Done? I’m just getting started. This is my villain arc."
"I shall rise from the ashes. I will become a symbol. I will be the man who survived Yvra."
"You still smell like soup."
"Exactly. I am seasoned."