We left the jousting grounds like two cats kicked out of a royal wedding—me covered in mud and ego bruises, Lilith grinning like she'd just robbed the treasury.
The walk back into town was slow, partly because my ribs were still negotiating whether they wanted to continue existing, and partly because everyone wouldn't stop staring.
A street vendor selling candied almonds called out, "Oi, Tumbling Knight! Want a bag on the house?"
I frowned. "Why's everyone calling me that?"
Lilith handed me a parchment. It was a sketch—me mid-air during the joust, eyes wide, mouth open like I'd just learned taxes existed. Underneath: THE TUMBLING KNIGHT — FALLING FOR HONOR!
"They printed this fast," I muttered.
As if that wasn't enough, a gaggle of kids ran past us with sticks, pretending to joust. One of them yelled, "I'm Sir Blayzeon!" and another screamed, "I'm Cecil, I lose!" before dramatically collapsing into a puddle.
Lilith laughed so hard she almost tripped. "You're inspiring the youth."
By the time we reached the manor, Galrik was waiting with a flyer. "My lord! They're staging a reenactment of your duel tonight at the tavern!"
"Oh good," I said flatly. "My humiliation is now dinner theater."
Mister Fog floated in with a sealed envelope, the scent of expensive perfume oozing from it like passive-aggressive smoke.
Cecil,
Sir Blayzeon and I will be attending the royal gala tonight. I recommend you refrain from any… dramatics.
— Yvra Bororo
Lilith leaned over my shoulder. "So… you're going, right?"
"I'm not going."
"Yes, you are."
"I literally just said—"
"You're going," she said again, already rummaging for a disguise.
Two hours later, I was standing in front of a mirror wearing a black-and-gold mask, a tailored coat, and the vague expression of a man about to commit social arson.
The royal gala was all glitter and smugness—gold chandeliers, masked nobles clinking crystal glasses, and music so pretentious it probably judged me.
And there she was.
Yvra, in a gown worth more than my soul, laughing beside Sir Blayzeon as the announcer welcomed everyone to the highlight of the evening:
"Tonight's entertainment… Sir Blayzeon's Heroic Tales!"
I gripped my champagne flute so hard it cracked.
"Oh no," I muttered. "Not on my watch."
The first "heroic tale" was Blayzeon single-handedly saving a village from a runaway war elephant.
A blatant lie. I was there. The "war elephant" was a runaway brewery cart pulled by one sleepy mule, and Blayzeon's biggest contribution was spilling my beer when he tripped over it.
The crowd ate it up like it was gospel. Every pause for dramatic effect was met with gasps. Every flex of his jawline was practically an act of seduction.
I felt my blood pressure doing cardio.
Lilith, standing beside me in a velvet mask, whispered, "You have that 'about to cause an incident' face again."
I downed my champagne in one gulp. "That's because I'm about to cause an incident."
When the announcer introduced Blayzeon's next tale—"The Humbling of the Tumbling Knight"—I lost it.
"That's it," I muttered, striding toward the stage.
A few guests chuckled nervously as I stepped into the spotlight, yanking the microphone (or… enchanted voice crystal) out of Blayzeon's hand.
"Good evening, nobility and freeloaders," I said, bowing dramatically. "I'm the Tumbling Knight. You may have seen me in such classics as 'Eating Dirt' and 'Regretting My Life Choices.'"
The crowd laughed, thinking I was in on the joke. I was not in on the joke.
"But let me tell you a story," I continued, pacing. "A story about a certain knight who once got stuck in a well for six hours because he thought it was a shortcut."
Gasps. Blayzeon's smile twitched.
"Oh, or how about the time he mistook a tax collector for a rampaging orc and hit him with a fish? Remember that, Blayzeon?"
Someone in the back shouted, "That was you, wasn't it?"
"Shut up," I said automatically.
Blayzeon stepped forward, trying to regain control of the narrative. "Cecil, this is hardly—"
"Oh! And the time he lost a duel to a goat."
That one got the nobles howling.
Yvra's glare could have set the curtains on fire. "Cecil. Outside. Now."
I shrugged. "Sure. But just so everyone knows—I tripped because the goat cheated."
The music tried to restart, but the energy was gone. Half the guests were still whispering "goat duel" to each other.
Lilith grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the exit, hissing, "Congratulations. You've officially weaponized pettiness."
"Thank you," I said, smiling for the first time that evening.