One week post-divorce and I had officially reached the "trying new things" phase.
Hair? Dyed it black. Like, void of light black. I told people it was symbolic of my rebirth. In truth, the bottle said "Vampire Goth Midnight #666" and I thought it looked cool.
Mood? Chaotic. My emotional support was now a three-legged squirrel nad Doompaw who had survived Floor Six and scread at clouds. We vibed.
But the real change?
I signed up for Clankr.
Yes. The dieval dating app powered by a half-broken golem who shouted nas at you until one of them agreed to et.
"CECIL! MATCHED WITH: MARTHA, 28, HERBAL NECROMANCER, ENJOYS LONG WALKS THROUGH PLAGUE FIELDS!"
I said yes.
We t in a graveyard. She brought tea. I brought a picnic. Turned out the tea was brewed from freshly deceased regret. Hers or mine? Who knows.
Mid-date, a hand burst from the soil next to us. She giggled.
"Don’t mind that. It’s my ex."
I left. Politely.
Second Date:
Match: "Brütalia, 9-ft tall war maiden, interests: swordplay, unhealed trauma, lifting oxen."
She was stunning. Also, she carried like a handbag.
We had a nice dinner. She paid. With a helt full of gold teeth.
But then she ntioned she was "technically still married to the Axe King of the Bone Realm," and I decided I didn’t want to get boned that way.
Third Date:
Match: "Janthony."
A bard. A romantic. A disaster.
He serenaded with a song called "You Sll Like a Regret But I’d Still Spoon Ya."
I think I blacked out halfway through the lute solo.
Lilith found behind the ale barrels, covered in glitter and sha.
"You’re spiraling," she said.
"I’m healing through experience."
"You kissed a duck."
"It seed into it."
Back at camp...
Sir Blayzeon and Yvra were now officially engaged.
He proposed by summoning a flock of doves and carving "Will You Marry ?" into a boulder with his face.
She said yes. With a headbutt.
There was confetti. And an official bard.
Yes. The sa bard who wrote The Bone-Olet Ballad. The man had albums now.
And ?
I was third-wheeling a fire elental who ghosted halfway through dessert.
"Okay," I declared to the mirror. "No more moping. No more pity parties."
Lilith walked in.
"Your squirrel is wearing your pants."
"NO MORE. Starting tomorrow."
The next morning, I rose with a purpose.
Not hope. Not resolve.
Spite.
Glorious, steaming, freshly brewed spite.
I marched into town wearing a brand-new tunic that said "I Survived the Dungeon, My Wife Didn’t Survive My Personality."
It had rhinestones.
Lilith begged not to wear it. Galrik offered ten gold to burn it. Mister Fog just whispered, "Pain is art," and started painting a mural of my divorce using fernted squid ink and tears.
I was unbothered. Petty. Glowing with delusion.
Objective One: Get Hot.
I signed up for "Knights Who Lift" – a local strength training club.
They laughed when I couldn’t lift the warm-up axe.
So I paid a mimic to follow around and scream motivational insults.
By day three, I could almost do a push-up. The mimic died of emotional burnout.
But I was getting ripped (in that my sleeves tore whenever I flexed slightly to reach for bread).
Objective Two: Beco a Mage.
I demanded magic lessons.
The local wizard said I had "the magical aptitude of a stunned turnip."
So I did what any man on a breakdown would do:
I bought an illegal wand off a goblin who told it was "crafted from the tooth of a screaming star."
First spell I cast? Accidentally turned my boots into cheese.
Second spell? Lit a pigeon on fire. It survived. Now it follows .
I call him Ashley.
Objective Three: Look Unbothered.
I made sure I was seen.
Sitting alone in the tavern reading a book called "Love Yourself (While Cursing Their Entire Bloodline)."Casually handing out candy to children (and loudly saying "I’m not sad, this is what winners do!")Practicing sword swings shirtless in the rain while sad violin music played from nowhere.
Lilith eventually threw a bucket of water on and said, "It’s not raining, you paid a bard to play ’Tragic Hero No. 3’ behind you."
anwhile, the kingdom was buzzing with news of the wedding.
Sir Blayzeon and Yvra’s "Battleball Union" was set to take place in the Sacred Arena of Matrimonial Violence, where couples prove love via tag-team combat.
I... wasn’t invited.
But I crashed the rehearsal anyway, disguised as a flower vendor.
Got kicked out for trying to sell enchanted roses that scread "YOU COULD HAVE HAD THIS" every ti soone picked one up.
That night, I sat with Mister Fog by the campfire.
He didn’t say anything. Just handed a letter. The envelope slled like blood, perfu, and injustice.
It was from Yvra.
Inside?
A wedding invite.
At the bottom:
"P.S. You may now refer to as ’The Duchess of Warbiceps.’"
"P.P.S. Sir Blayzeon taught how to dance."
"P.P.P.S. I always hated your olets."
I didn’t cry.
I just scread into a pillow until it caught fire from my sheer humiliation.
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