The Sacred Arena of Matrimonial Violence was packed.
It had banners. It had ballads. It had security tighter than the king's tax code. And somewhere deep within the chaos, my ex-wife was standing in a wedding dress made entirely of dragon-scale lace, holding hands with the Knight of Every Woman's Wet Dream, Sir Blayzeon of the Shimmering Thighs.
And me?
I was in a fake mustache, a powdered wig, and a tuxedo made of borrowed curtains.
Lilith: "You look like a haunted violin instructor."
Cecil: "Good. No one suspects haunted violin instructors."
Mister Fog handed me a vial. "Use this when the priest says 'If anyone objects—'"
Cecil: "What does it do?"
Fog: "Unclear. Could be a smoke bomb. Could be a very persuasive illusion of a horse screaming your ex's secrets. I forgot."
I kissed it like it was holy. "Perfect."
The wedding began.
Sir Blayzeon strode down the aisle to a thunderous choir singing "My Abs, Your Heart" – a traditional knight-ballad rumored to cause fainting.
Three ladies in the crowd passed out.
Yvra followed, flanked by her bridesmaids—each of whom was a retired arena champion or current war criminal.
She looked radiant.
She looked powerful.
She looked like she could kill me with a smile and a very well-aimed hairpin.
I sat in the audience next to Galrik, who kept muttering, "Say the word and I'll collapse the ceiling."
"No," I whispered. "Let her have this. But if they play 'Love Conquers Plate Mail,' we riot."
The priest stepped forward. He was suspiciously tall, smelled like lavender and judgment, and had a glowing third eye.
"Before we continue," he said in a voice that shook reality, "if anyone here objects to this union—"
I stood.
Lilith hissed, "Oh gods, please don't—"
"I OBJECT."
The entire arena gasped.
Even the statues looked surprised.
Sir Blayzeon narrowed his eyes. "Who dares?"
I tore off my wig dramatically.
"It is I. Cecil of the Regrettable Decisions. Yvra's ex-husband. And future public embarrassment."
Silence.
Yvra blinked. "Cecil, what are you doing?"
I reached into my coat and—
Threw the vial.
It exploded in a burst of screaming mist and glitter.
And from it emerged a projection of Yvra screaming "He was mid at swordplay and in bed" on loop.
The entire arena turned into a gasping mess of drama.
Sir Blayzeon stepped forward. "You have five seconds to explain why I shouldn't launch you into the stratosphere."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Then held up a sign that said: "I'm still in love with her (but I'm working on it in therapy)."
Yvra stared at me for a long moment.
Then she burst out laughing.
The crowd didn't know what to do.
The priest sighed and flipped to "Plan B" in his holy book.
Sir Blayzeon? He clapped.
"You've got balls," he said. "Tiny, trembling balls. But balls nonetheless."
And then?
He kissed Yvra, dipped her, and declared: "Let this be the start of our glorious battle-union!"
The crowd roared.
I tried to roar too but ended up choking on glitter mist.
The wedding reception was held on top of a floating citadel made of enchanted champagne flutes.
Yes. That's not a metaphor.
The nobles said it was "symbolic of the fragility of love." I said it was "symbolic of me probably falling to my death if I went near the open bar."
I sat at the Outcasts Table™—the one shoved near the kitchen, between a sentient broom and a disgraced opera singer cursed to meow when drunk.
Lilith had vanished to "find the shrimp tower." Mister Fog was still testing glitter residue from the vial. Galrik had taken up arm wrestling the broom.
I?
I was watching my ex-wife slow dance with Sir Blayzeon beneath a chandelier shaped like two dragons hugging with their tails. The worst part? It was genuinely romantic.
Yvra looked happy.
And I—
Cecil: "I look like the ghost of a failed musical."
A waiter passed by.
Waiter: "Champagne?"
Cecil: "Do you have anything stronger?"
Waiter: "Hope?"
Cecil: "Disgusting. I'll take two."
A chair creaked beside me.
It was the King.
Yes, the actual King. Crown, cape, and the permanent squint of a man who suspects everyone is stealing his silverware.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then leaned in and whispered:
King: "I once shat myself during a coronation."
Cecil: "...What."
King: "Just wanted to say you're not alone in embarrassment. Carry on."
And then he vanished into a puff of royal confidence and sandalwood.
I watched the couple cut the cake together—an enormous structure shaped like a hydra, each head screaming in frosting.
As they kissed again, I raised my flute.
"To love," I muttered. "May it never come near me again."
Lilith returned. Her mouth was full of shrimp and murder.
Lilith: "So... ready to bounce?"
Cecil: "I was ready to bounce when I was born."
She grabbed my arm, whistled for Galrik (who was now wrestling two brooms), and nodded to Mister Fog, who'd set a distraction by releasing hallucinogenic pigeons.
We left under the cover of feathers, fireworks, and my final tear of the night.
Back at the inn, I stared at the ceiling, now single, broke, and banned from six noble weddings for "emotional terrorism."
But deep inside, past the regret and the mild indigestion—
Cecil: "I think I'm finally ready to move on."
And then the ceiling caved in and a knight in flaming armor shouted:
"MARRIAGE INSPECTION!"
I screamed.
The chaos had returned. Peace had been a lie. But at least I had shrimp in my pocket.