I AM NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER, PLEASE STOP GIVING ME QUESTS Chapter 26: The Hero, the Ex, and the Horse He Rode In On

There are many things one can endure in life: losing battles, losing friends, losing your favorite spoon to the garbage disposal. But watching your ex-wife get paraded around the royal gardens by her new lover—Sir Blayzeon the Unreasonably Handso—while a bard sings a love ballad she wrote herself? That’s emotional manslaughter.

I stood there in the shadow of the royal citrus trees, holding a tray of crab puffs and pretending I hadn’t just overheard her refer to him as "her emotionally literate gallant." I choked on a puff. The tray fell. A servant gave a look usually reserved for stray dogs that crash weddings.

Lilith, dressed like sin and sarcasm as usual, popped a grape into her mouth. "Still sulking?"

"No," I said, eyes locked on Yvra Bororo twirling like she was on the cover of so emotionally healthy fairytale. "I’ve transcended sulking. I’m post-sulk. Enlightened, even."

Galrik stomped over, chestplate polished and helt under one arm. "I spoke to her."

"You what?"

"I told her that she broke the heart of a noble man. That she should reconsider."

"Oh gods," I moaned.

"She said, and I quote," Galrik squinted, "’Tell him to stop using our divorce as a character developnt arc.’"

Mister Fog drifted by on a cloud of his own tears. "I think love is a system error. One you can’t patch."

"Not helpful, Fog."

I tried to focus on anything else: the absurdly rich cheese table, the mildly cursed wine that giggled when you drank it, the royal inspection party still lurking around making judgntal notes. But no. Every five seconds, soone pointed out the new couple.

"Yvra Bororo," a noble whispered. "What a tragic upgrade."

I turned. "Excuse ?"

"Oh," they said, startled. "Sorry, I thought you were a waiter."

"I AM WEARING ARMOR."

"Ah. My mistake. Good luck on your journey."

I watched as Sir Blayzeon helped Yvra mount a horse—my horse, technically, though nobody asked —and then kissed her hand like he invented chivalry. The crowd swooned. Soone actually fainted. I heard a harp.

Lilith leaned in. "You know what you need?"

"Therapy?"

"A rebound."

I blinked. "Like emotionally?"

"No. Like romantically. Or violently. Either one would do."

Mister Fog whispered, "Revenge marriage."

Galrik nodded. "I shall begin auditioning brides imdiately."

"I’m not marrying so random stranger just to—OH FOR THE LOVE OF—"

Sir Blayzeon was now giving a speech.

"To the lady who has reignited the fla of duty in my soul," he said, voice silky like butter being poured over poetry, "know that I ride not into battle alone—but with your love as my shield."

The crowd lost its mind.

I died a little inside. Then a herald bood, "The inspection will now continue with personal interviews!"

"Oh thank gods," I muttered, stepping forward. "Maybe sothing normal."

"Sir Cecil," the inspector said, adjusting his quill, "how do you respond to allegations that you were found crying into a plate of wedding pastries at three in the morning?"

"That... depends. Was the pastry lemon-flavored?"

They wrote sothing. Probably "emotionally unstable."

Lilith passed a note. It just said "DO SOTHING."

I swallowed.

And then I did.

There are many things one can endure in life: losing battles, losing friends, losing your favorite spoon to the garbage disposal. But watching your ex-wife get paraded around the royal gardens by her new lover—Sir Blayzeon the Unreasonably Handso—while a bard sings a love ballad she wrote herself? That’s emotional manslaughter.

I stood there in the shadow of the royal citrus trees, holding a tray of crab puffs and pretending I hadn’t just overheard her refer to him as "her emotionally literate gallant." I choked on a puff. The tray fell. A servant gave a look usually reserved for stray dogs that crash weddings.

Lilith, dressed like sin and sarcasm as usual, popped a grape into her mouth. "Still sulking?"

"No," I said, eyes locked on Yvra Bororo twirling like she was on the cover of so emotionally healthy fairytale. "I’ve transcended sulking. I’m post-sulk. Enlightened, even."

Galrik stomped over, chestplate polished and helt under one arm. "I spoke to her."

"You what?"

"I told her that she broke the heart of a noble man. That she should reconsider."

"Oh gods," I moaned.

"She said, and I quote," Galrik squinted, "’Tell him to stop using our divorce as a character developnt arc.’"

Mister Fog drifted by on a cloud of his own tears. "I think love is a system error. One you can’t patch."

"Not helpful, Fog."

I tried to focus on anything else: the absurdly rich cheese table, the mildly cursed wine that giggled when you drank it, the royal inspection party still lurking around making judgntal notes. But no. Every five seconds, soone pointed out the new couple.

"Yvra Bororo," a noble whispered. "What a tragic upgrade."

I turned. "Excuse ?"

"Oh," they said, startled. "Sorry, I thought you were a waiter."

"I AM WEARING ARMOR."

"Ah. My mistake. Good luck on your journey."

I watched as Sir Blayzeon helped Yvra mount a horse—my horse, technically, though nobody asked —and then kissed her hand like he invented chivalry. The crowd swooned. Soone actually fainted. I heard a harp.

Lilith leaned in. "You know what you need?"

"Therapy?"

"A rebound."

I blinked. "Like emotionally?"

"No. Like romantically. Or violently. Either one would do."

Mister Fog whispered, "Revenge marriage."

Galrik nodded. "I shall begin auditioning brides imdiately."

"I’m not marrying so random stranger just to—OH FOR THE LOVE OF—"

Sir Blayzeon was now giving a speech.

"To the lady who has reignited the fla of duty in my soul," he said, voice silky like butter being poured over poetry, "know that I ride not into battle alone—but with your love as my shield."

The crowd lost its mind.

I died a little inside. Then a herald bood, "The inspection will now continue with personal interviews!"

"Oh thank gods," I muttered, stepping forward. "Maybe sothing normal."

"Sir Cecil," the inspector said, adjusting his quill, "how do you respond to allegations that you were found crying into a plate of wedding pastries at three in the morning?"

"That... depends. Was the pastry lemon-flavored?"

They wrote sothing. Probably "emotionally unstable."

Lilith passed a note. It just said "DO SOTHING."

I swallowed.

And then I did.

I stood up on the nearest decorative pedestal, which was probably ant for flower arrangents, not emotionally unstable ex-husbands. But screw etiquette. If she could gallop around with Sir Shampoo-Comrcial, I could at least reclaim so dignity.

"People of the Court!" I shouted.

The music stopped. The crowd went hush. Even the giggling wine paused.

Yvra turned, face unreadable. Sir Blayzeon raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"I—" I glanced down. My knees were shaking. Shit. Was this a mistake?

Probably.

Too late.

"I would like to announce that I too have moved on," I said, voice cracking like a haunted violin.

Mister Fog erged from behind a pillar holding two ducks. "Shall I officiate?"

"No. Put the ducks down."

Galrik stepped up. "My lord, if this is about regaining honor, I have an enchanted goat who’s quite eligible—"

"NO."

I turned back to the stunned audience. "I have found new love!" I pointed into the crowd at the first poor soul I saw—so knight’s daughter clutching a mimosa and looking like she wanted to dissolve into mist.

She blinked. "?"

"Yes," I said confidently. "You."

Lilith whispered, "She’s twelve."

"NOT YOU."

I changed trajectory and pointed at... oh no.

Lilith.

She narrowed her eyes. "Try , coward."

"Lilith," I declared loudly, "has agreed to enter a mutually beneficial and completely platonic arrangent with , built on trust, sarcasm, and revenge."

The crowd gasped. Yvra’s eyes narrowed. Sir Blayzeon said, "This feels... performative."

"OH YOU THINK?"

Then Lilith grabbed by the collar and kissed .

I didn’t process it at first. I think my soul exited my body and filed a restraining order on my behalf. The crowd erupted. The bard fainted. A scribe dropped his quill in slow motion.

Lilith pulled back, smirking. "That’ll sell papers."

I stood frozen.

Sir Blayzeon actually looked... shaken. For a mont. Until Yvra whispered sothing in his ear and they both started laughing. Like really laughing. Like I’d just farted at a funeral and they were the only ones who knew.

Galrik slapped on the back. "You have done it, my lord. You have reclaid your dignity!"

I was still catatonic.

Mister Fog handed a card that said "You Are Now Legally In A Thing."

Later, at the post-inspection banquet, I sat in the corner with a bowl of anxiety soup.

Lilith clinked her glass. "Well, Cecil. You’re trending."

"You kissed in front of the queen."

"Technically the queen kissed in 2008. I’m recycling."

I stared at my soup.

And for the first ti... I smiled.

A weird, unhinged, possibly-delusional smile.

Because maybe, just maybe...

I was moving on.

Or going insane.

Sa difference.