If there’s one thing worse than public humiliation, it’s waking up the next morning and realizing your humiliation now has press coverage.
I came downstairs to find Mister Fog at the kitchen table, reading a scroll. He looked up at me over the rim of his cup like he’d just caught me cheating at life.
"You made the front page," he said.
"The Royal Gazette. Headline says—" He squinted, "’Local Ex-Husband Declares Emotional War in Middle of Inspection, Possibly Engaged to Resident Menace.’"
Lilith, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating jam with a dagger, grinned. "You are engaged to me, remember? Or was that just a ’heat of the moment’ kiss?"
I groaned and poured myself something caffeinated. "That was a ’my ex-wife is being wooed by Sir Muscle Thighs and I’m having a crisis’ kiss. Big difference."
"Don’t worry," she said. "We can fake-break-up later. Preferably during another royal event."
Galrik came in, helm under his arm, and dropped a crumpled note on the table. "This was nailed to the manor door."
I unfolded it. The handwriting was neat. Elegant. Infuriating.
Your theatrics yesterday were as predictable as they were unnecessary. I do hope you’re enjoying the attention.
P.S. Sir Blayzeon has agreed to teach me advanced jousting. I’ll be thinking of you.
I crumpled the letter. "She’s weaponizing sports now."
Lilith tilted her head. "You’re going to show up to that jousting lesson, aren’t you?"
"Absolutely not," I said. "Because I have self-control. And dignity. And—"
Mister Fog interrupted. "And you’re already halfway out the door."
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The jousting field was like a battlefield for peacocks. Shiny armor everywhere, banners flapping dramatically, squires oiling lances like they were prepping for a romance cover shoot. And there, in the center, was Yvra. Laughing. With him.
Sir Blayzeon sat tall in the saddle, sunlight bouncing off his hair like he’d bribed the gods. He leaned down to say something to her, and she laughed again. That specific laugh. The one she used to do with me before she realized I wasn’t knight material.
Lilith, leaning on the fence beside me, whispered, "I give it five minutes before you make a scene."
"I’m not making a scene."
Five minutes later, I was in a borrowed suit of armor, demanding a joust.
Sir Blayzeon accepted.
The crowd was buzzing. Word travels fast when the challenger is an untrained, emotionally compromised man whose armor still has the price tag dangling from the pauldron.
I gripped the lance like it was a broom handle and I was about to sweep up my dignity. Across the field, Sir Blayzeon looked effortlessly perfect, sitting on his horse like the animal had been sculpted for his thighs alone.
The referee, a wiry man who looked allergic to fun, raised his flag. "Challengers, any words before the match?"
"Yes," I said, glaring at Blayzeon. "You may have stolen my wife, my horse, and possibly my favorite seat at the tavern, but you will not steal my—"
Blayzeon interrupted with a polite smile. "Dignity?"
Lilith yelled from the stands, "Make him eat dirt, Cecil!"
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We charged. Well, he charged. I... kind of wobbled forward like a drunk goat on stilts. My horse, likely sensing the desperation radiating off me, decided this was the perfect time to reconsider its career choices.
Blayzeon’s lance struck first, catching me square in the chestplate with enough force to knock me clean off my saddle. I hit the ground so hard I saw three Yvras, all equally disappointed in me.
The crowd roared. Not for me.
But I wasn’t done. I scrambled up, still clutching my lance. "Round two!" I shouted.
The referee frowned. "That was the round."
"Then we’re doing sudden death!"
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Sudden death, it turns out, is not an official jousting term. But I invented it on the spot: both contestants off their horses, lances still in hand, just trying to out-stupid each other until one gives up.
Blayzeon stepped forward. "Cecil, this is ridiculous—"
I lunged. Not well. Not gracefully. But I lunged.
And somehow—somehow—the blunt tip of my lance caught the lip of his perfect, smug armor. He tripped. The man tripped.
I turned to them, chest heaving. "You see that?! I just invented ground jousting!"
Blayzeon stood, brushing himself off, and extended a hand. "You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that."
Yvra stepped in, her tone frostier than a lich’s pantry. "You’ve got stubbornness. Which is why I left you."
Lilith hopped the fence and clapped me on the back. "Come on, champ. Let’s get you a drink before you start challenging windmills."
As we walked away, battered and muddy, I looked back to see Blayzeon and Yvra riding off together—laughing. Always laughing.
I was already plotting the rematch.