Being banned from all royal events for a year was… fine. Honestly, I never liked them anyway. Too much standing, too much bowing, not enough free punches.
But being publicly humiliated twice in one week? That wasn't fine. That was something that called for decisive, chaotic countermeasures.
Lilith sat at the manor table, sipping tea, while I paced like a general planning the next great war.
"You're banned from the palace," she reminded me. "The King literally said you'd be exiled if you looked at a duck. You need to cool off."
"Cool off?" I stopped pacing and slammed my palm on the table. "Lilith, do you know what happens when a man cools off? He becomes reasonable. And reasonable people don't make history."
She rolled her eyes. "You're not making history. You're making tomorrow's gossip."
"Same thing."
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I unfurled a stolen map of the city—yes, stolen. I "borrowed" it from the royal archives while the steward was recovering from the apple-to-the-forehead incident.
"This," I said, pointing to a district near the docks, "is the perfect place to hit him next."
"Blayzeon lives uptown," Lilith said.
"Yes, but tomorrow morning, he's visiting the orphanage for some smug public image stunt. I'll be there first. I'll make sure whatever he tries to do ends up looking—" I tapped the map dramatically "—like the most self-serving act in history."
Lilith narrowed her eyes. "You're going to sabotage a charity event for orphans?"
I shrugged. "Sabotage is such an ugly word. I prefer… narrative redirection."
________________________________________
We spent the night preparing.
Galrik brought in barrels of questionable paint. Mister Fog scouted the rooftops for vantage points. I drafted a speech that was exactly thirty percent genuine concern and seventy percent Blayzeon slander.
By dawn, the plan was in motion.
The orphanage was a squat brick building with peeling shutters and a small courtyard. Children were already gathering, some playing with battered toys, others whispering about the big day.
"Remember," I told Lilith, "we're here to steal the narrative. Smile. Be charming. Don't throw anything unless I say so."
She nodded. "Got it."
________________________________________
Phase One went flawlessly. We handed out sweets to the kids before Blayzeon arrived, earning instant popularity. Mister Fog floated above the crowd, dropping glitter "for ambience." Galrik set up a makeshift puppet show in the corner, which quickly drew a crowd.
When Blayzeon finally rode in, the children barely noticed him—they were too busy laughing at a puppet version of me fighting a duck.
He dismounted, clearly irritated, and gave me a tight smile. "Cecil. Didn't expect to see you here."
"I'm here for the orphans," I said smoothly. "Unlike some people, I don't need applause to do good deeds."
His smile twitched. "Funny. I was just about to say the same to you."
________________________________________
Phase Two was meant to be subtle: while Blayzeon posed for the local scribe's sketches, I'd "accidentally" spill one of Galrik's barrels of bright pink paint in the background, ruining the perfect heroic scene.
Unfortunately, the barrel was heavier than expected, my grip was worse than expected, and…
Well. It didn't so much spill as explode.
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The courtyard went silent as the shockwave of paint coated everything within twenty feet—children, toys, the orphanage wall, and most importantly… Blayzeon's pristine white armor.
He stood there, dripping pink, looking like a furious flamingo.
Someone in the crowd snorted. Someone else started laughing. Then the laughter spread until even the orphans were doubled over.
Blayzeon glared at me with the force of a thousand lances. "Cecil…"
"Yes?"
"You. Are. Finished."
________________________________________
Lilith tugged my sleeve. "Time to go."
I backed toward the street, hands raised in mock surrender. "Always a pleasure, Sir Quackzeon!"
The cheer from the children followed us all the way down the block.
We didn't even make it three streets away before I heard the hoofbeats.
Blayzeon's horse clattered into view, his armor still streaked pink, his expression the very definition of murder with paperwork.
"You humiliated me in front of orphans," he said, voice low, dangerous.
"You humiliated yourself," I replied. "I just… provided the paint."
He didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he pointed his lance directly at me. "I challenge you. Here. Now."
Lilith threw her hands up. "In the middle of the street? What is wrong with both of you?"
"Fine," I said. "But if we're doing this, we do it my way—no horses."
The crowd that had been following us from the orphanage immediately began to chant: "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"
________________________________________
We squared off in the dusty street, the onlookers forming a loose ring around us. Mister Fog floated in like an ominous referee.
"On my signal," he intoned. "No stabbing in the eyes, no breaking bones below the waist, and no crying until after the match."
Blayzeon rolled his shoulders. I adjusted my broom-lance, which had somehow survived yesterday's riot.
"Three… two… one…"
________________________________________
I lunged first—not because I thought I could win, but because my only real weapon was surprise. I swung the broom in a wide arc. Blayzeon dodged easily and jabbed his lance into my ribs. The crowd ooh'd.
"Fast," I admitted, gasping. "But can you handle… this?"
I kicked up a handful of dust and flung it in his face.
He stumbled back, coughing, and I charged, aiming for his knees. Unfortunately, the broom caught on his greave, snapped in half, and I went sprawling.
The crowd roared with laughter. A child shouted, "You're worse than the puppet!"
________________________________________
Blayzeon loomed over me, lance poised. "Yield."
I grinned up at him. "Never."
That's when Galrik, bless his chaotic soul, intervened. From the edge of the crowd, he hurled a sack of flour into the fray. It exploded in a cloud so dense that for a moment, we were both ghosts.
Blayzeon coughed, blinded. I scrambled up, grabbed the other half of my broom, and—
"STOP!"
________________________________________
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The crowd parted, and there she was: Yvra Bororo.
Elegant, furious, and flanked by two knights, she strode into the circle like she owned the cobblestones. Which, knowing her, she probably did.
"What," she said, glaring at me, "are you doing?"
I dusted myself off. "Just a friendly—"
"Street fight?" she snapped. "Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused lately? My family name is being dragged through the mud because of you."
Blayzeon, ever the opportunist, straightened and put on his best wounded expression. "Yvra, I assure you—"
"Oh, shut up," she said, cutting him off.
________________________________________
The crowd gasped. Blayzeon's jaw tightened.
"This ends here," Yvra declared. "Cecil, you are—" she looked me up and down, sighed— "utterly hopeless. I'm filing for divorce."
The crowd exploded.
Lilith mouthed, "Called it."
________________________________________
"And you," Yvra turned to Blayzeon, "are escorting me to the palace. We're going to have a long conversation about the kind of man you are."
She strode off, the two knights following, leaving me and Blayzeon staring at each other in mutual disbelief.
Finally, I shrugged. "Guess that's one way to ruin your day."
Blayzeon's glare could've melted steel. "This isn't over."
________________________________________
By the time we slunk back to the manor, Lilith was laughing so hard she had to lean against the doorframe.
"You lost your wife, your dignity, and your broom," she said between giggles. "And somehow, I think you're proud of yourself."
I grinned. "Lilith, today was a masterpiece. And tomorrow… tomorrow's going to be chaos."