The ceiling had just exploded, raining down charred wood, surprise confetti, and a fully-armored inspector named Sir Duncelot—a knight so devoted to bureaucracy he wore a cape made of expired licenses.
Sir Duncelot (flipping through a flaming clipboard):
"By royal decree number fuck-you-32B, all formerly noble spouses must undergo an Emotional Recovery Evaluation within seven to ten business heartbreaks!"
I blinked.
Cecil: "…What does that even mean?"
Sir Duncelot: "Are you currently harboring any post-divorce delusions, unresolved grudges, or desires to set things on fire?"
The floor behind me was already slightly smoldering.
Cecil: "No comment."
After a rigorous twenty-minute emotional audit (which involved a lie detector that slapped you if you fibbed), I was officially declared "unfit for romantic reintegration."
This meant:
No kissing.No flirting.No wistful staring out windows while it rains.
I was issued a support animal.
It was a rock. Named "Carl."
Carl had a sticker that said "I'm trying."
Meanwhile, the King had sent me a royal scroll.
Not a summons. Not an apology.
A "Self-Improvement Quest™."
Apparently, I had 30 days to "rebuild myself into a functional asset to the kingdom, or be legally classified as emotionally contagious."
Lilith read it over my shoulder.
Lilith: "...Did he just send you on a government-mandated glow-up?"
Cecil: "Yeah. And he underlined the part that said 'no crying in public.'"
Galrik (reading upside-down): "He also doodled a sword stabbing a heart."
So the plan was set. I had one month to:
Find new housing.Earn income.Appear "stable enough" to not scare nobility.And most importantly: win the Divorce Olympics by becoming way hotter than my ex.
Lilith called it "The Renaissance of Cecil."
I called it "Operation Stop Crying on the Floor of the Tavern."
We rented a rundown cottage on the edge of the kingdom.
It had a roof.
Most of it.
It had a door.
Just one.
And it had rats.
One of whom had unionized.
But it was mine.
I built a chore wheel with only one chore: "Try not to die."
I made vision boards with pictures of emotionally stable men. Most were just badly drawn stick figures with six-packs and hopeful expressions.
I enrolled in a self-defense class taught by a goblin named Brenda who screamed affirmations while hitting you with a ladle.
Brenda: "YOU ARE STRONG!"
whap
Brenda: "YOU ARE HEALING!"
whap
Brenda: "YOU WILL OUTLIVE YOUR ENEMIES!"
WHAP
And I?
I started to believe her.
Even Carl nodded.
Day three of the "Cecil Renaissance."
I woke up tangled in a blanket that smelled like regret and whatever Galrik uses as cologne. Probably wet granite.
Outside, Lilith was already doing combat yoga on the lawn with Brenda the ladle goblin. Every time she hit a pose, something in the forest exploded. Brenda approved.
Brenda: "YES. DEATH IS FLEXIBILITY!"
Inside, Carl the Emotional Support Rock had rolled off the table in what I can only interpret as a passive-aggressive statement about my progress.
Cecil: "You know what, Carl? Same."
Today's goal was income.
Because the rats had started charging rent.
And also because I wanted to afford at least one bath that didn't involve using rainwater and self-loathing.
Lilith tossed a flyer on my chest.
It read:
"Help Wanted – Hero's Guild seeks Temporary Healer / Therapy Intern / Distraction Target."
That last one felt targeted.
I showed up at the Hero's Guild wearing my second-best tunic and my first-best attempt at looking like I had mental stability.
The receptionist didn't even look up.
Receptionist: "Name?"
Cecil: "Cecil. No last name, because I'm emotionally divorced from identity."
Receptionist: "Position?"
Cecil: "Temporary therapist. Or magical janitor. Whichever pays in food."
I was immediately assigned to a squad known as The Incredible Fuck-Ups.
Captain: Sir Beef. No rank. Just muscles and a smile that screamed "bad decisions."Mage: Madam Moogla, who cast exclusively glitter-based spells and spoke in limericks.Rogue: Gerald. Just Gerald. Wears a cloak made of unpaid taxes.And now, me: the "Support Unit," aka, Emotional Punching Bag #3.
Sir Beef clapped me on the back so hard I forgot algebra.
Sir Beef: "Welcome to the squad! You cry, you die! Let's go save orphans!"
Cecil: "…Why do I feel like the orphans are going to end up saving us?"
Our first mission: rescue a noble's daughter from a haunted bathhouse.
Apparently, the ghosts were unionizing and demanding spa benefits.
We entered the steam-soaked ruins, armed with bubble wands and ghost insurance.
Madam Moogla shouted:
"There once was a banshee from Troke,
Who screamed every time she awoke!
We brought her some tea,
And a small scone or three—
And now she just moans when she jokes!"
A ghost exploded in gratitude.
Sir Beef tackled a spectral loofah. Gerald pickpocketed a haunted towel. I, somehow, calmed down a weeping wraith by validating its childhood trauma.
Cecil: "You're not the mildew. You're just trapped in the mildew."
The bathhouse was saved.
The noble's daughter was found crying in a whirlpool because no one had ever told her "no" before.
We got paid in royal coupons.
Back home, bruised but proud, I flopped on my hay bed next to Carl.
Cecil: "Day three. I didn't die. I'm still broke. But I got to punch a ghost."
Carl said nothing. As always.
But this time… he felt warmer.
Or maybe the rats peed on him.
Either way, it was progress.