It was supposed to be a quiet morning.
I woke up to birdsong, sunlight, and a strange feeling of peace I didn’t trust at all. Yvra wasn’t in bed beside , which ant either she was sharpening swords sowhere, or already halfway through her third duel of the day. Classic Tuesday behavior.
I stretched, yawned, and said to myself, "Maybe today won’t be a complete catastrophe."
That’s when the frying pan exploded.
Specifically, it exploded at —thrown with loving hatred by my now-ex-wife.
"WHY did you put cinnamon in the eggs?!" Yvra scread, stomping into the kitchen with the fury of a thousand unpaid rcenaries.
"It was an experint!" I shouted back, dodging another incoming plate that shattered into culinary regret against the wall.
"You don’t experint with breakfast before a royal inspection!"
"I thought it was sweet and spicy!"
"It was a cri against the concept of taste!"
Mister Fog floated by, holding a coffee mug that said "#1 Divorce Lawyer" and muttered, "This is escalating beautifully."
Lilith, still wearing her half-buttoned sleep robe and pouring rum into her cereal, raised an eyebrow. "Are they breaking up over eggs?"
"Not just eggs," Yvra snapped, storming past and pointing dramatically. "He ruined my training outfit in the wash. Again. I told you, no hexed fabrics with cold water, Cecil!"
"IT DIDN’T HAVE A TAG!"
"You put it in with socks that sll like emotional abandonnt!"
"Those are battle socks!"
She threw a spoon. It curved midair and nailed right in the eye.
Lilith nodded. "That’s a clean break-up spoon. This is happening."
The royal trumpets blared in the distance—perfect timing, because naturally, the royal inspection team had arrived right at the climax of my marriage imploding in the courtyard.
I limped outside, clutching my spoon-eye, to find Sir Blayzeon Highmount, a knight so handso birds did slow-motion fly-bys near his cheekbones, dismounting a glistening white warhorse. He had the kind of jawline that looked like it narrated audiobooks. Probably ones about honor.
And standing next to him? Yvra. Already smiling.
"Cecil" Sir Blayzeon said in a voice that ca with a built-in echo. "You... must be the husband."
I stepped forward, one eye watering, shirt burnt from egg-splash, and said, "Technically."
Yvra coughed. "Actually, I was just about to change that."
The royal scribe—because of course there was a royal scribe—looked up from his scroll. "Do you wish to file for imdiate divorce proceedings?"
"I do," Yvra said calmly, like she was confirming a dinner reservation.
"On what grounds?"
She paused. "He microwaved tea."
Gasps. Audible gasps. One guard fainted. The warhorse whinnied in outrage.
Sir Blayzeon stepped closer. "Microwaved... tea?"
I shrugged. "I forgot the kettle existed!"
"That is heresy," he whispered.
"Okay, look," I said, panic rising in my chest, "can we not do this in front of the royal audit team, please? I haven’t even faked my competency yet—"
"Too late," Lilith called from the sidelines, holding up a sign that read, "DIVORCE CAM IN PROGRESS." Mister Fog had already set up popcorn.
Yvra turned to , calm and final. "I need soone who understands structure. Honor. And proper tea temperature."
Sir Blayzeon offered her his gauntleted hand like he was proposing to a Disney princess, and she took it.
"Wait, are you dating him now?" I choked.
"It’s been fifteen minutes," she said. "Love moves fast."
"She filed a change-of-heart docunt five minutes after breakfast," the scribe added helpfully.
And with that, Yvra strutted away arm-in-arm with the hottest knight this side of dramatic betrayal, while I stood alone in my courtyard, covered in emotional yolk and sha.
Lilith patted on the back. "Don’t worry. We’ll find you a rebound."
Mister Fog floated past, holding a wedding RSVP that said: "Blayzeon & Yvra – You’re Not Invited."
The trumpet blared again.
Next up on the royal inspection list: my competency evaluation.
Of course it was.
The inspector wore a monocle so judgntal it had its own eyebrows. His na was Reginald von Audit, and his clipboard had more gold trim than my family vault. He walked like soone who’s never known joy, only bureaucracy.
"Are you," he sniffed, "the current acting Head of the Bororo estate?"
I opened my mouth to say sothing reassuring, then rembered I’d just been divorced in front of a royal trumpet and was still emotionally leaking yolk.
"Yes," I said anyway. "Absolutely."
Behind , Mister Fog lit a candle. "For the lies," he whispered.
Von Audit scribbled sothing imdiately. "I see. State of grounds: disheveled. Presence of livestock in the west wing: docunted. Current marital stability: tragic."
"That last one felt unnecessary."
He turned to the team. "Please gather everyone for a Standardized Nobility Competency Display."
Lilith groaned. "That sounds like a job interview got drunk and threw up."
Within minutes, the courtyard was repopulated. Staff, guards, the entire audit team, and a very smug Yvra now seated on Sir Blayzeon’s warhorse like a judgntal prom queen. She didn’t say anything. She just twirled a dagger. Threateningly. Sexily. I couldn’t tell anymore.
"Begin," von Audit said, and sat down.
The test began with Noble Poise.
Which I failed imdiately by tripping on my cape and kicking a ceremonial gong into the pantry. The gong landed on a sack of flour. The flour exploded. I erged looking like I was cosplaying a haunted pastry.
Next was Diplomacy Under Pressure.
"Imagine a hostile duke demands compensation for stolen wine," said the inspector. "How do you respond?"
"Was it good wine?" I asked.
"Is that relevant?"
"It is to my wallet, yes."
"Failure," he muttered.
Lilith tried to help by handing flashcards she made out of tavern coasters. One said, Just say ’I apologize’ and cry. Another said Set fire to a bush and run.
I did both.
Then ca Combat Competence.
Sir Galrik, now inexplicably shirtless, handed a sword and said, "Don’t worry. Just pretend the dummy insulted your bloodline."
I did. I scread, swung, and missed the dummy so hard I spun in a full circle and stabbed a potted plant.
Yvra snorted. "That ficus had it coming."
Sir Blayzeon clapped politely. "A noble effort. For soone with brittle wrists."
I turned to Lilith. "Are my wrists brittle?"
She blinked. "You sprained your elbow sneezing last week."
Fair.
Von Audit raised a hand. "Final test: Leadership Evaluation. All nobles must lead by example. Demonstrate your ability to command loyalty."
Mister Fog floated forward. "He let keep bees in the chapel."
"That’s not helping."
Lilith stepped up. "Cecil once got stabbed protecting a child. It turned out to be a raccoon. But still."
Galrik nodded. "He often cries, but he cries honorably."
Yvra, from her throne-horse, muttered, "He also once said ’I’ll figure it out’ and then tried to bribe a mimic with jam."
"I THOUGHT IT LIKED SWEETS!"
The mimic in question, still living under the porch, burped.
Von Audit scribbled. Then... paused.
"I have never seen such chaotic incompetence so thoroughly supported by sheer social gravity. Your staff is loyal. Your allies are strong. Your enemies are confused."
I stood up straighter. "So... I pass?"
He looked dead in the eye. "You pass out of sheer narrative stubbornness. Against my better judgnt, I approve your status as Baron."
I blinked. "I... I did it?"
Trumpets. Confetti. A goat exploded in celebration.
And for a mont—just a mont—I felt like I might actually be qualified to lead.
Then I turned and saw Yvra passionately kissing Sir Blayzeon like they were starring in a romantic war drama.
The goat exploded again.
I walked offstage quietly and whispered to Lilith, "Please, for the love of all that is holy, let fight goblins again."
She nodded. "An."
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