The morning after my masterpiece at the orphanage, Bramblehook woke up buzzing.
Not the good, quiet buzz you get from bees or drunk bakers — no, this was the loud, ugly, "everyone in town knows your business" kind of buzz.
Everywhere I went, people stared.
The grocer gave me my change with two fingers like I was contagious.
A group of street urchins followed me chanting, "FLA-MIN-GO! FLA-MIN-GO!"
A passing dog barked in a tone that sounded suspiciously like "loser."
Lilith, of course, was thriving.
She leaned against the manor gate like a queen overseeing her idiot jester. "You're famous again. Blayzeon's sworn revenge, Yvra's legally unattached, and the paper calls you 'the broom-wielding menace.'"
"They spelled menace with two N's," I grumbled.
She smirked. "Maybe it's short for 'men-nuisance.'"
Galrik bounded down the stairs in full armor, holding two loaves of bread like swords. "Training duel! Winner gets the last pickle!"
"Galrik," I said, "I'm emotionally drained."
"That's why it's the perfect time for combat," he said cheerfully. "You'll fight with raw, desperate energy!"
Before I could object, Mister Fog floated in upside-down, sipping tea that smelled like betrayal. "I've been to the docks," he said. "There's a notice posted with your name, Cecil. The King's Guard wants you for… disturbing the narrative of charitable events."
Lilith raised an eyebrow. "That's an actual charge?"
Mister Fog nodded. "Punishable by fine, exile, or being forced to write apology poetry to every orphan in the kingdom."
I groaned. "Great. First my wife leaves me, now I'm supposed to rhyme 'sorry' with 'child abandonment'?"
________________________________________
We gathered around the kitchen table to "strategize," which in our household means yelling ideas until something explodes.
"Option one," Galrik began, "we duel Blayzeon in the arena. Publicly. Winner gets to rewrite the official orphanage records."
"Option two," Lilith said, "we frame Blayzeon for something worse. Like treason. Or mime work."
"Option three," Mister Fog said, swirling his tea, "we burn the orphanage down."
"Absolutely not," I said.
"Metaphorically," he added.
"That's somehow worse."
Lilith tapped the table. "If you really want to win this, you need to hit him where it hurts. Not his armor. His ego."
That's when the front door rattled. A royal courier shoved an envelope into my chest and ran like the paper was cursed.
The wax seal? Blayzeon's family crest.
I opened it. The letter inside was short, smug, and smelled faintly of lavender and condescension:
Cecil Dreggs,
Your antics yesterday were unbecoming of… well, anyone. I hereby invite you to a "reconciliation brunch" at my estate tomorrow, where I shall prove to all present that I am the greater man.
Attire: Formal.
Bread: Provided.
– Sir Blayzeon Highrider
"Brunch?" Galrik said. "He's baiting you into enemy territory."
"Yes," Lilith said, "and you're going."
"What? Why?"
She grinned. "Because nothing says 'victory' like ruining a man's brunch in his own house."
________________________________________
By morning, I was in my least-wrinkled shirt (still wrinkled) and boots that only smelled slightly of swamp water. Lilith wore her casual murder outfit. Galrik had a tie strapped over his breastplate. Mister Fog was dressed as a butler for reasons he refused to explain.
Blayzeon's estate was offensively perfect. White marble pillars. Gardens trimmed into shapes of heroic poses — his heroic poses. The front gates swung open without a creak, which somehow felt smug.
He met us in the courtyard, shining like a man who ironed his soul before breakfast. "Cecil," he said, smile tight. "I'm glad you could make it."
I smiled back. "I almost didn't. Thought about sleeping in. But then I remembered… brunch is just lunch with delusions of grandeur."
His jaw twitched. "Shall we?"
The table was absurd. Enough food for twenty people, even though there were only six of us. Every plate had his family crest baked into the bread. He made a toast about "good sportsmanship" that somehow included the phrase "defeat in pink."
I was halfway through a croissant when Lilith kicked me under the table. "Phase one," she mouthed.
Right. Phase one.
________________________________________
I stood up. "Blayzeon, since we're reconciling, I thought we should settle things the proper way: bread duel."
He blinked. "Bread… duel?"
"Rules are simple. We each get a loaf. First to disarm the other wins. Winner gets bragging rights, loser has to serve toast for the rest of the meal."
The guests laughed. Blayzeon smirked. "Very well."
Galrik tossed each of us a loaf.
We squared off.
"Three… two… one—"
I swung my baguette with the force of a thousand petty grudges. He blocked, riposted, and clipped my shoulder. Crumbs flew. The crowd cheered.
Then I remembered Phase two.
Mister Fog, on cue, floated above us and poured a fine powder from a silver pouch. Blayzeon looked up—
Too late.
The powder hit him square in the face.
"Flour?" he coughed.
I grinned. "Nope. Bread curse."
His loaf went limp in his hand like it had lost the will to live.
I tapped him on the chest with my still-crispy baguette. "Point to me."
The crowd erupted. Lilith smirked. Blayzeon's smile froze.
And somewhere in the distance… I heard the sound of royal guards approaching.
The first guard through the gates was wearing a helmet so polished I could see my own smug reflection in it. He looked from me, to Blayzeon, to the baguette in my hand, and sighed like a man who'd just realized his day was about to be terrible.
"Cecil Dreggs," he said, in the tone used for announcing both arrests and funeral processions. "By order of the Crown, you're under detention for—"
Blayzeon jumped in, flour still clinging to his hair. "—public humiliation of a knight, disturbance of a royal narrative, and aggravated brunch conduct."
I blinked. "Aggravated brunch conduct isn't real."
"It is now," he hissed.
Lilith leaned over to Mister Fog. "Do you think they have a specific prison just for idiots like him?"
Mister Fog sipped tea. "If they don't, they will after today."
________________________________________
The guards began advancing, but Galrik stepped in, loaf in each hand. "You'll have to go through me."
One of the guards shrugged. "Fine."
The ensuing fight was less "epic battle" and more "bar brawl with baked goods." Loaves smacked against shields. Breadsticks snapped like tiny spears. Someone's helmet got filled with sourdough.
I tried to make a run for it, but Blayzeon grabbed me by the collar. "Oh no, you're not escaping this time."
"That's where you're wrong," I said. "I have a plan."
He rolled his eyes. "You? Plan? I'll believe it when—"
FOOM.
A smoke cloud erupted between us, thick as Mister Fog's "mystery stew."
"Go!" Lilith's voice cut through the chaos.
________________________________________
We barreled through the garden, past hedges trimmed into Blayzeon's heroic poses. I resisted the urge to decapitate Hedge-Blayzeon #4 with my baguette.
The smoke started thinning just as we hit the back wall. Galrik crouched down. "Boost?"
I stepped on his hands and was launched over the wall like a very confused cat. Landed in a barrel of rainwater. My boots squelched.
Lilith landed gracefully beside me. Mister Fog floated over. Galrik, bless him, got stuck halfway and had to wiggle free, swearing at the wall in three languages.
We regrouped in an alley, panting.
"Okay," Lilith said, "we need to lay low for at least a week."
"Or," I countered, "we take this momentum and ruin Blayzeon's life before he can ruin mine."
She groaned. "What momentum? You just committed brunch treason."
________________________________________
Before I could answer, a small figure shuffled into the alley. Hood up. Patchy cloak. A messenger bag that looked like it had been through three wars.
"You Cecil?" the figure rasped.
"Depends who's asking."
The figure shoved a letter into my hand and vanished into the nearest sewer grate without another word.
The envelope was heavy. The seal wasn't royal this time — it was stamped with something stranger: a loaf of bread crossed with two swords.
I broke it open.
To the Baguette Victor,
We saw what you did to Sir Blayzeon. We approve. The Guild of Unconventional Weaponry hereby invites you to represent us in the Annual Combat Bake-Off. Grand prize: one Royal Pardon and unlimited bakery credit for life.
Failure to attend will be considered an insult to our doughy honor.
– Master Crust, Guild Leader
I stared at the letter.
"Unlimited bakery credit," Galrik breathed.
"Royal Pardon," Lilith murmured.
"Combat Bake-Off," Mister Fog repeated, grinning like the lunatic he is.
I folded the letter and shoved it in my pocket. "Looks like we've got ourselves a new quest."
Lilith put her face in her hands. "This is going to be so stupid."
I grinned. "Exactly."