The moment Blayzeon lunged, the entire hall went from dignified murmurs to pure chaos. The King's goblet froze halfway to his lips, foreign dignitaries gasped like they'd just watched a puppy get kicked, and the orchestra screeched to a stop mid-song.
I dodged left, narrowly avoiding a war loaf–sized gauntlet swinging at my head. The unfortunate ambassador from Vorsk caught the backdraft and toppled into a tureen of pumpkin soup.
Blayzeon recovered fast. "You've just declared war on table manners!"
"That's the only war I'm willing to fight," I said, vaulting over the roast swan centerpiece. My boot clipped its wing, sending it tumbling into the lap of a very startled duchess.
She screamed. The scream triggered two other screams. Then, like some bizarre social chain reaction, the entire hall erupted in shouts, clattering dishes, and the unmistakable sound of someone smacking someone else with a leg of lamb.
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