The next morning, I was dragged out of bed by a half-naked man riding a centipede. Apparently, that was how Yvra’s family delivered invitations.
"Official summons to the Mother-Matriarch’s Broodfeast," the rider said, not breaking eye contact. "Attendance is compulsory. Resistance will be eroticized."
Before I could process any of that, he blew into a horn that sounded like soone gargling bees and vanished into the swamp mist.
Yvra was already braiding her war-hair. "Good news, love. You get to et my mothers."
"Mothers?"
She adjusted the spikes on her ceremonial boots. "Seven of them. Each more horrifying than the last."
"No father?"
"They ate him. Tradition."
I blinked.
"Is that a joke?"
Yvra didn’t blink.
We rode deeper into the swamp, past boiling mud pits, whispering trees, and a suspiciously sexy statue of Yvra punching a bear. Mister Fog refused to co, citing "emotional allergies to backwater god-cults." Galrik had taken one look at the invitation and said, "Not even for science." Lilith was the only one who offered to join, but only so she could live-stream my suffering to a demon audience.
The Broodfeast was held in a cathedral made of bones and passive aggression. Inside sat Yvra’s seven mothers—each one a different brand of nightmare.
Mother I: A lizard-woman with a crown of wasps and zero patience.
Mother II: A floating nun who spoke only in riddles and pregnancy threats.
Mother III: A sentient fungus that made slurping noises every ti I blinked.
Mother IV: Looked like a porcelain doll, but every ti I looked away, she moved closer.
Mother V: A talking fla with 300 opinions and one bad attitude.
Mother VI: A giant snake that only hissed judgnt.
Mother VII: Yvra herself... but older, scarier, and sohow always behind .
Yvra knelt before them, and I tried to follow suit but accidentally tripped on a femur rug and fell face-first into a bowl of teeth.
"Your husband is clumsy," hissed the snake-mother.
"He is fragile," corrected the fla. "Like a moist rice cracker."
"W-well, technically I’m still alive," I muttered.
"Barely," added Mother III, bubbling ominously.
Mother I leaned forward. "State your purpose, husband of blood."
"Survive," I said. "Maybe nap. Possibly cry."
They didn’t laugh.
The Broodfeast was... an experience. Dishes included "Emotionally Flayed Duck," "Souls of the Unworthy," and sothing they called "Mommy’s Favorite," which was just a live eel soaked in bitterness.
The mothers took turns asking questions. Every one of them was a trap.
Mother II: "How many children will you give us?"
: "How many do I have to survive to give?"
Mother IV: "What would you do if Yvra were possessed?"
: "Honestly? Probably just die and save us all so ti."
Mother V: "What do you bring to this union?"
: "Snark. And chronic back pain."
The worst part? They liked .
"Ohhh, he’s pathetic," Mother VI hissed lovingly.
"Truly spineless. Like a decorative worm," said the fungus.
"I haven’t seen soone so unqualified for survival since my third wife," added Mother I with a nostalgic sigh.
Yvra bead like a schoolgirl winning an axe-throwing contest. "They adore you!"
I was shaking. My drink had teeth. The dessert scread when I cut into it.
Yvra leaned over and whispered, "Next cos the dance."
"There’s a dance?"
"Oh yes. With the Eighth Mother."
"There’s an eighth?"
"Oh, we don’t speak of her," Yvra said with a grin. "But you’ll know when you see her."
I choked on my eel.
From the shadows, sothing giggled.
The shadows parted.
From the swirling blackness of what I hoped was incense and not, say, powdered ancestral remains, she erged.
The Eighth Mother.
She wasn’t... visible, exactly. More like a ripple in reality. Her presence made my teeth itch and my skin develop a foreign tax bracket. Her shape shifted between a seven-foot woman in a ballroom gown and a crab made of mirrors. Every ti I blinked, she was doing sothing new—playing piano, juggling wedding rings, breakdancing inside my trauma.
She reached out a hand that was definitely a hoof a second ago.
"Dance with , worm," she said, her voice simultaneously echoing through the room and inside my colon.
I looked at Yvra.
She gave a thumbs up. With blood on it.
I stood up. "This can’t be worse than Floor Seven," I whispered to myself.
It was.
The music started. A haunting, discordant lody played on swamp organs and what I could only assu were weaponized flutes.
We danced.
And by we, I an she whipped around like a mop in a tornado.
At one point, I was upside down.
At another, I was a chair.
I don’t even know what dance form this was. It wasn’t waltz. It wasn’t salsa. It was closer to "interpretive hostage situation."
The Eighth Mother spun violently, then whispered into my ear:
"I see your tiline, little man. You are a joke told by a dying god."
"Cool cool cool," I said through the blood in my teeth.
"Yvra deserves better," she hissed.
"She does," I coughed. "I’ve been saying that since Chapter One."
She paused.
Then... she laughed.
Not a normal laugh. A hurricane laugh. A laugh that shook the cathedral. The other mothers stiffened. The walls cracked.
And then, she stopped the music with a flick of her... elbow? Tail? Soul?
"This one lives," she declared.
And vanished into the floor like a bad decision.
The Broodfeast was declared a success.
As we rode back, bruised, bleeding, and spiritually exfoliated, Yvra looked at with sothing dangerously close to affection.
"You impressed them," she said.
"No I didn’t."
"You survived."
"Barely!"
"That’s the standard," she said, wrapping an arm around . "You did good, husband."
I stared blankly into the mist. "I think one of them laid an egg in ."
"That’s also tradition."
I sighed. "Can we go back to fighting dungeon monsters? That was less traumatic."
Yvra smiled. "Don’t worry. Tomorrow’s just a simple royal inspection."
"Simple?"
"...And it’s being run by your ex."
I scread into the swamp. The birds scread back.
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