There are many things one can endure in life: losing battles, losing friends, losing your favorite spoon to the garbage disposal. But watching your ex-wife get paraded around the royal gardens by her new lover—Sir Blayzeon the Unreasonably Handsome—while a bard sings a love ballad she wrote herself? That’s emotional manslaughter.
I stood there in the shadow of the royal citrus trees, holding a tray of crab puffs and pretending I hadn’t just overheard her refer to him as "her emotionally literate gallant." I choked on a puff. The tray fell. A servant gave me a look usually reserved for stray dogs that crash weddings.
Lilith, dressed like sin and sarcasm as usual, popped a grape into her mouth. "Still sulking?"
"No," I said, eyes locked on Yvra Bororo twirling like she was on the cover of some emotionally healthy fairytale. "I’ve transcended sulking. I’m post-sulk. Enlightened, even."
Galrik stomped over, chestplate polished and helmet under one arm. "I spoke to her."
"I told her that she broke the heart of a noble man. That she should reconsider."
"She said, and I quote," Galrik squinted, "’Tell him to stop using our divorce as a character development arc.’"
Mister Fog drifted by on a cloud of his own tears. "I think love is a system error. One you can’t patch."
I tried to focus on anything else: the absurdly rich cheese table, the mildly cursed wine that giggled when you drank it, the royal inspection party still lurking around making judgmental notes. But no. Every five seconds, someone pointed out the new couple.
"Yvra Bororo," a noble whispered. "What a tragic upgrade."
I turned. "Excuse me?"
"Oh," they said, startled. "Sorry, I thought you were a waiter."
"I AM WEARING ARMOR."
"Ah. My mistake. Good luck on your journey."
I watched as Sir Blayzeon helped Yvra mount a horse—my horse, technically, though nobody asked me—and then kissed her hand like he invented chivalry. The crowd swooned. Someone actually fainted. I heard a harp.
Lilith leaned in. "You know what you need?"
I blinked. "Like emotionally?"
"No. Like romantically. Or violently. Either one would do."
Mister Fog whispered, "Revenge marriage."
Galrik nodded. "I shall begin auditioning brides immediately."
"I’m not marrying some random stranger just to—OH FOR THE LOVE OF—"
Sir Blayzeon was now giving a speech.
"To the lady who has reignited the flame of duty in my soul," he said, voice silky like butter being poured over poetry, "know that I ride not into battle alone—but with your love as my shield."
The crowd lost its mind.
I died a little inside. Then a herald boomed, "The inspection will now continue with personal interviews!"
"Oh thank gods," I muttered, stepping forward. "Maybe something normal."
"Sir Cecil," the inspector said, adjusting his quill, "how do you respond to allegations that you were found crying into a plate of wedding pastries at three in the morning?"
"That... depends. Was the pastry lemon-flavored?"
They wrote something. Probably "emotionally unstable."
Lilith passed me a note. It just said "DO SOMETHING."
There are many things one can endure in life: losing battles, losing friends, losing your favorite spoon to the garbage disposal. But watching your ex-wife get paraded around the royal gardens by her new lover—Sir Blayzeon the Unreasonably Handsome—while a bard sings a love ballad she wrote herself? That’s emotional manslaughter.
I stood there in the shadow of the royal citrus trees, holding a tray of crab puffs and pretending I hadn’t just overheard her refer to him as "her emotionally literate gallant." I choked on a puff. The tray fell. A servant gave me a look usually reserved for stray dogs that crash weddings.
Lilith, dressed like sin and sarcasm as usual, popped a grape into her mouth. "Still sulking?"
"No," I said, eyes locked on Yvra Bororo twirling like she was on the cover of some emotionally healthy fairytale. "I’ve transcended sulking. I’m post-sulk. Enlightened, even."
Galrik stomped over, chestplate polished and helmet under one arm. "I spoke to her."
"I told her that she broke the heart of a noble man. That she should reconsider."
"She said, and I quote," Galrik squinted, "’Tell him to stop using our divorce as a character development arc.’"
Mister Fog drifted by on a cloud of his own tears. "I think love is a system error. One you can’t patch."
I tried to focus on anything else: the absurdly rich cheese table, the mildly cursed wine that giggled when you drank it, the royal inspection party still lurking around making judgmental notes. But no. Every five seconds, someone pointed out the new couple.
"Yvra Bororo," a noble whispered. "What a tragic upgrade."
I turned. "Excuse me?"
"Oh," they said, startled. "Sorry, I thought you were a waiter."
"I AM WEARING ARMOR."
"Ah. My mistake. Good luck on your journey."
I watched as Sir Blayzeon helped Yvra mount a horse—my horse, technically, though nobody asked me—and then kissed her hand like he invented chivalry. The crowd swooned. Someone actually fainted. I heard a harp.
Lilith leaned in. "You know what you need?"
I blinked. "Like emotionally?"
"No. Like romantically. Or violently. Either one would do."
Mister Fog whispered, "Revenge marriage."
Galrik nodded. "I shall begin auditioning brides immediately."
"I’m not marrying some random stranger just to—OH FOR THE LOVE OF—"
Sir Blayzeon was now giving a speech.
"To the lady who has reignited the flame of duty in my soul," he said, voice silky like butter being poured over poetry, "know that I ride not into battle alone—but with your love as my shield."
The crowd lost its mind.
I died a little inside. Then a herald boomed, "The inspection will now continue with personal interviews!"
"Oh thank gods," I muttered, stepping forward. "Maybe something normal."
"Sir Cecil," the inspector said, adjusting his quill, "how do you respond to allegations that you were found crying into a plate of wedding pastries at three in the morning?"
"That... depends. Was the pastry lemon-flavored?"
They wrote something. Probably "emotionally unstable."
Lilith passed me a note. It just said "DO SOMETHING."
I stood up on the nearest decorative pedestal, which was probably meant for flower arrangements, not emotionally unstable ex-husbands. But screw etiquette. If she could gallop around with Sir Shampoo-Commercial, I could at least reclaim some dignity.
"People of the Court!" I shouted.
The music stopped. The crowd went hush. Even the giggling wine paused.
Yvra turned, face unreadable. Sir Blayzeon raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"I—" I glanced down. My knees were shaking. Shit. Was this a mistake?
"I would like to announce that I too have moved on," I said, voice cracking like a haunted violin.
Mister Fog emerged from behind a pillar holding two ducks. "Shall I officiate?"
"No. Put the ducks down."
Galrik stepped up. "My lord, if this is about regaining honor, I have an enchanted goat who’s quite eligible—"
I turned back to the stunned audience. "I have found new love!" I pointed into the crowd at the first poor soul I saw—some knight’s daughter clutching a mimosa and looking like she wanted to dissolve into mist.
"Yes," I said confidently. "You."
Lilith whispered, "She’s twelve."
I changed trajectory and pointed at... oh no.
She narrowed her eyes. "Try me, coward."
"Lilith," I declared loudly, "has agreed to enter a mutually beneficial and completely platonic arrangement with me, built on trust, sarcasm, and revenge."
The crowd gasped. Yvra’s eyes narrowed. Sir Blayzeon said, "This feels... performative."
Then Lilith grabbed me by the collar and kissed me.
I didn’t process it at first. I think my soul exited my body and filed a restraining order on my behalf. The crowd erupted. The bard fainted. A scribe dropped his quill in slow motion.
Lilith pulled back, smirking. "That’ll sell papers."
Sir Blayzeon actually looked... shaken. For a moment. Until Yvra whispered something in his ear and they both started laughing. Like really laughing. Like I’d just farted at a funeral and they were the only ones who knew.
Galrik slapped me on the back. "You have done it, my lord. You have reclaimed your dignity!"
I was still catatonic.
Mister Fog handed me a card that said "You Are Now Legally In A Thing."
Later, at the post-inspection banquet, I sat in the corner with a bowl of anxiety soup.
Lilith clinked her glass. "Well, Cecil. You’re trending."
"You kissed me in front of the queen."
"Technically the queen kissed me in 2008. I’m recycling."
And for the first time... I smiled.
A weird, unhinged, possibly-delusional smile.
Because maybe, just maybe...