The next morning hit like a tax audit with feelings.
I woke up not to birdsong or sunlight, but to the horrifying shriek of Mister Fog sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter whispering, "All eggs are lies." He was eating what I can only describe as a philosophical omelet—each bite punctuated by a different haunting declaration like "Scrambled dreams" or "The yolk of man is cracked."
I ignored him. Mostly because I was busy processing the fact that my wife had left me for a knight with the bone structure of a statue and the personality of a heatwave.
And the worst part?
I couldn't even blame her.
I mean, sure, I'd survived a dungeon filled with grief, clowns, and nihilistic disco parties. But what had I done for her lately? Burned toast? Lost socks? Cried into my own elbow because I remembered a scene from the divorce yesterday?
Yeah.
Today was grief leftovers, microwaved.
Lilith walked in, looking like she hadn't slept—which was impressive, considering she was a night-hag of fashion and rage. She tossed her dagger on the table, sat across from me, and said, "You're moping."
I stared blankly at my bowl of cereal. "I am processing."
She poked my shoulder. "You've been making that cereal loop around the bowl for thirty minutes."
"It's a metaphor."
"For what?"
"My life."
A long pause.
Then she said, "Gods, you're getting poetic. We need to fix this."
Before I could object, Mister Fog chimed in from across the kitchen, "I think the egg is married to the toast."
"Please stop," I whispered.
He blinked slowly. "Or perhaps… divorced."
I threw my spoon at him. It phased through his cloak and knocked over a canister of salt, which somehow spelled out 'GET OVER IT' in Morse code.
________________________________________
The door banged open like the world had remembered I existed.
Sir Galrik burst in, resplendent in morning armor, face glowing with heroic rebound energy. "The town has heard the news."
I groaned. "What news?"
He leaned in like a gossip auntie. "The royal court is calling it 'The Break-Up That Broke Protocol'. Lady Yvra is now being courted openly by Sir Blayzeon."
"Courted?" I choked on my metaphors.
Lilith snorted. "You were publicly dumped during a state inspection. They've already written a ballad about it."
"A WHAT?!"
Mister Fog passed me a scroll. "It's called 'The Breakfast Divorce: A Scrambled Heart'."
I unrolled it. The lyrics rhymed "tragedy" with "over easy."
I dropped the scroll and slammed my head into the table. "I hate this kingdom."
"We need to get you out of this house," Lilith said.
"I am grieving!"
"You're in your bathrobe."
"This is armor. For the soul."
She grabbed me by the collar. "We're going outside."
________________________________________
Which is how I ended up in the middle of the city square, still in my bathrobe, being emotionally manhandled by my teammates while a bard sang a breakup duet with a talking raccoon.
It got worse.
People clapped.
A child approached me with a sympathy flower. I took it and cried into it like a man who had just realized flowers don't solve existential rejection.
Sir Galrik gave an impromptu speech about "resilience in the face of cuckolding" and tried to knight me again, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure he's not legally allowed to wield authority anymore after what he did to that bridge.
Lilith just lit a cigarette and watched me drown in public pity like it was fine entertainment.
And Mister Fog?
He summoned a small rain cloud to hover directly above me.
"Symbolism," he whispered.
I don't remember walking back to the house.
I think I blacked out halfway through the part where someone handed me a Team Yvra shirt.
Or maybe it was the flying merchant who tried to sell me a mug that read, "My Wife Left Me And All I Got Was This Existential Crisis"—which I bought, because, well… accurate.
We got home. I went straight to the couch. Lilith went straight to the liquor cabinet. Galrik tried to give a pep talk. Mister Fog was building a shrine made of broken plates and expired coupons.
You know. Tuesday.
"Alright," Lilith said, slamming down a bottle. "New plan. You get over Yvra Bororo by becoming someone so emotionally stable and sexy that she begs to take it back."
"Lilith," I croaked. "She's dating a knight named Blayzeon. That's not a name. That's a fire spell that became a man."
"You fought a talking nightmare clown in a birthday-themed torture room," she said. "You can handle this."
"Yeah, but the clown didn't have abs."
Sir Galrik, polishing his sword in the corner, looked up. "Are we allowed to duel him for honor?"
"No," Lilith said.
"Not even a little?"
"No."
"But what if I just… challenge him to an emotionally symbolic horse race—"
"Still no."
Meanwhile, Mister Fog had finished the shrine. It was now humming with energy and chanting the phrase "self-worth" in Old Elvish.
"Look," I sighed. "Maybe this is good. Maybe I needed a reset. Maybe I was a terrible husband."
"You were," Lilith said without hesitation.
"Thank you, that helps."
"But also… she was the worst," she added. "Like, I love her. She's iconic. But she also had the emotional depth of a gilded spoon and once stabbed me for touching her quiche."
"She stabs everyone for touching her food," Galrik said proudly. "It's tradition."
I looked down at my mug. The words seemed to shimmer: "This mug doesn't cry—you do."
Yeah. Okay.
Maybe it was time for the next chapter of my life.
One without Yvra Bororo.
One without the constant threat of romantic decapitation.
Maybe even one where I wasn't constantly getting emotionally tossed like a bag of cursed potatoes.
And then—of course—there was a knock at the door.
I opened it.
Standing there, in full gleaming armor, smelling like pine needles and charisma, was Sir Blayzeon the Betrayer.
He was holding hands with Yvra Bororo.
She looked radiant. Like heartbreak had moisturized her. She gave me the same look you give a raccoon caught in your pantry.
"Oh hey," she said casually. "Just wanted to grab my hairbrush. And also let you know the engagement's happening tonight. You're invited, if you want to come and, you know… be mature."
I said nothing.
I just nodded. Like a man who had ascended past language and into the astral plane of emotional numbness.
Behind me, Mister Fog whispered, "I knew he'd be hot. I hate how right I was."
________________________________________
I didn't go to the engagement party.
I sat at home with my team. We got wine drunk on stolen communion juice and played "Guess That Trauma" until Galrik cried from remembering the duck floor again.
Yvra Bororo could have her hot knight and her perfect life.
Me?
I had my chaos crew, my trauma bandana, and a full punch card at the local therapist's office.
I was gonna be okay.
Maybe not today.
But eventually.