One week post-divorce and I had officially reached the "trying new things" phase.
Hair? Dyed it black. Like, void of light black. I told people it was symbolic of my rebirth. In truth, the bottle said "Vampire Goth Midnight #666" and I thought it looked cool.
Mood? Chaotic. My emotional support was now a three-legged squirrel named Doompaw who had survived Floor Six and screamed at clouds. We vibed.
I signed up for Clankr.
Yes. The medieval dating app powered by a half-broken golem who shouted names at you until one of them agreed to meet.
"CECIL! MATCHED WITH: MARTHA, 28, HERBAL NECROMANCER, ENJOYS LONG WALKS THROUGH PLAGUE FIELDS!"
We met in a graveyard. She brought tea. I brought a picnic. Turned out the tea was brewed from freshly deceased regret. Hers or mine? Who knows.
Mid-date, a hand burst from the soil next to us. She giggled.
"Don’t mind that. It’s my ex."
Match: "Brütalia, 9-ft tall war maiden, interests: swordplay, unhealed trauma, lifting oxen."
She was stunning. Also, she carried me like a handbag.
We had a nice dinner. She paid. With a helmet full of gold teeth.
But then she mentioned she was "technically still married to the Axe King of the Bone Realm," and I decided I didn’t want to get boned that way.
A bard. A romantic. A disaster.
He serenaded me with a song called "You Smell Like a Regret But I’d Still Spoon Ya."
I think I blacked out halfway through the lute solo.
Lilith found me behind the ale barrels, covered in glitter and shame.
"You’re spiraling," she said.
"I’m healing through experience."
Sir Blayzeon and Yvra were now officially engaged.
He proposed by summoning a flock of doves and carving "Will You Marry Me?" into a boulder with his face.
She said yes. With a headbutt.
There was confetti. And an official bard.
Yes. The same bard who wrote The Bone-Omelet Ballad. The man had albums now.
I was third-wheeling a fire elemental who ghosted me halfway through dessert.
"Okay," I declared to the mirror. "No more moping. No more pity parties."
"Your squirrel is wearing your pants."
"NO MORE. Starting tomorrow.
The next morning, I rose with a purpose.
Not hope. Not resolve.
Glorious, steaming, freshly brewed spite.
I marched into town wearing a brand-new tunic that said "I Survived the Dungeon, My Wife Didn’t Survive My Personality."
Lilith begged me not to wear it. Galrik offered me ten gold to burn it. Mister Fog just whispered, "Pain is art," and started painting a mural of my divorce using fermented squid ink and tears.
I was unbothered. Petty. Glowing with delusion.
Objective One: Get Hot.
I signed up for "Knights Who Lift" – a local strength training club.
They laughed when I couldn’t lift the warm-up axe.
So I paid a mimic to follow me around and scream motivational insults.
By day three, I could almost do a push-up. The mimic died of emotional burnout.
But I was getting ripped (in that my sleeves tore whenever I flexed slightly to reach for bread).
Objective Two: Become a Mage.
I demanded magic lessons.
The local wizard said I had "the magical aptitude of a stunned turnip."
So I did what any man on a breakdown would do:
I bought an illegal wand off a goblin who told me it was "crafted from the tooth of a screaming star."
First spell I cast? Accidentally turned my boots into cheese.
Second spell? Lit a pigeon on fire. It survived. Now it follows me.
Objective Three: Look Unbothered.
I made sure I was seen.
Sitting alone in the tavern reading a book called "Love Yourself (While Cursing Their Entire Bloodline)."Casually handing out candy to children (and loudly saying "I’m not sad, this is what winners do!")Practicing sword swings shirtless in the rain while sad violin music played from nowhere.
Lilith eventually threw a bucket of water on me and said, "It’s not raining, you paid a bard to play ’Tragic Hero No. 3’ behind you."
Meanwhile, the kingdom was buzzing with news of the wedding.
Sir Blayzeon and Yvra’s "Battleball Union" was set to take place in the Sacred Arena of Matrimonial Violence, where couples prove love via tag-team combat.
But I crashed the rehearsal anyway, disguised as a flower vendor.
Got kicked out for trying to sell enchanted roses that screamed "YOU COULD HAVE HAD THIS" every time someone picked one up.
That night, I sat with Mister Fog by the campfire.
He didn’t say anything. Just handed me a letter. The envelope smelled like blood, perfume, and injustice.
"P.S. You may now refer to me as ’The Duchess of Warbiceps.’"
"P.P.S. Sir Blayzeon taught me how to dance."
"P.P.P.S. I always hated your omelets."
I just screamed into a pillow until it caught fire from my sheer humiliation.