The morning began with a knock on the manor door. Not a polite "I have mail for you" knock — no, this was the aggressive, three-knuckle drumbeat of soone who was already amused at my expense and couldn’t wait to deliver the punchline.
I shuffled to the door, still half-asleep, wearing what I believed to be a robe but in truth was just a bedsheet wrapped creatively.
Standing outside was a baker, holding a tray of golden-brown rolls like an offering to a petty god.
"Complints of Sir Quackzeon!" the baker declared, projecting his voice with such gusto that I saw three curtains twitch on the opposite side of the street. "He says these are for the less fortunate!"
There was a long pause in which my brain processed two things:
1. I was the "less fortunate."
2. The entire neighborhood now knew it.
I took the tray wordlessly, shut the door slowly, and turned to find Lilith leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, sipping tea like a smug gargoyle.
"You gonna eat those?" she asked.
I placed the tray on the counter. "They’re cursed."
Lilith grabbed one anyway, took a bite, and let out a theatrical "Mmm."
"Delicious," she said. "Tastes like revenge... and public humiliation."
________________________________________
It didn’t stop with the rolls. By midmorning, the city had developed a new hobby: .
First ca the children. Groups of them followed through the market, holding sticks like lances, quacking at in perfect synchronization. One kid, no older than six, even threw bread crumbs at my feet.
Then there was the fishmonger, who shouted, "Careful, folks! The Tumbling Knight might trip and land in my cod!"
The blacksmith offered to make "training wheels" for my lance.
The tailor refused to serve , claiming he "only worked with winners."
By the ti we were halfway ho, a street perforr was reenacting my charity match loss with two stuffed ducks tied to a broom. He was surprisingly accurate.
________________________________________
"You know," Lilith said between snickers, "I don’t think I’ve ever seen a city turn on soone this fast. Even that guy who tried to sell bottled sewer water lasted a week before they chased him out."
"That’s because you weren’t here for the Great Cabbage Incident," I muttered.
Her eyes lit up. "Cabbage incident?"
"Don’t ask."
________________________________________
When we got back to the manor, Mister Fog floated into the foyer with an expression I could only describe as deeply amused. In his incorporeal hands, he carried a sealed parchnt stamped with the royal crest.
"It slls smug," he said.
I broke the seal and read aloud:
Cecil,
You are cordially invited to attend the Royal Charity Tournant tomorrow. All proceeds will go to the rehabilitation of animals affected by yesterday’s... incident.
Sir Blayzeon has personally requested your presence in the ’friendly’ exhibition match.
— Signed, The Crown
There was a beat of silence before Lilith slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
"They’re going to destroy you in front of the entire city," she whispered, equal parts horrified and thrilled.
"I’m not going," I said flatly, tossing the letter into the fireplace.
Mister Fog smirked — sohow — and said, "You are going. Because the last ti you ignored a royal summons, they sent three guards, a sorcerer, and a guy whose sole job was to glare at you until you agreed."
I sighed. "Fine. But if I’m going down, I’m taking him with ."
Lilith leaned forward. "Define ’taking him with you.’"
"Let’s just say," I said, grinning like a man with a terrible plan, "that broom-lance is about to make a coback."
________________________________________
The next day arrived far too quickly, and with it ca the sound of the city buzzing for the event. From the manor balcony, I could see banners strung between rooftops, most of them showing Blayzeon’s smug helted face. A few... less flattering... banners showed a stick figure tripping over a duck.
Galrik was waiting in the entry hall with a bundle of... what I assud were "weapons."
"I’ve prepared options," he said proudly. "We have: broom-lance, slingshot, sack of flour, and... for ergencies... one extrely aggressive goose."
"Where did you get the goose?" I asked.
He didn’t answer.
________________________________________
We arrived at the tournant grounds to find them packed. Nobles sat under gold-trimd pavilions, fanning themselves with peacock feathers. Commoners crowded the fences, hawkers sold "Tumbling Knight" souvenirs, and sowhere, a bard was already tuning his lute for my inevitable failure song.
The announcer’s voice bood across the arena:
"LADIES AND GENTLEN, WELCO TO THE MAIN EVENT—A FRIENDLY MATCH BETWEEN SIR BLAYZEON, DEFENDER OF THE REALM... AND... THE TUMBLING KNIGHT!"
The cheer for Blayzeon was deafening. My cheer consisted of one drunk guy yelling, "Fall funnier this ti!"
________________________________________
Blayzeon rode in on his perfect white stallion, looking like a painting co to life. I walked in on foot, because apparently my horse had "mysteriously" vanished this morning.
A page handed my weapon: a broom with a pot tied to the end.
"This is my weapon?" I asked.
"The King said it was fitting," she replied with the stone-faced professionalism of soone who had delivered many insults in her career.
Blayzeon smirked. "No hard feelings, Cecil?"
"Oh, none at all," I lied. "Let’s get this over with before I start liking you."
The announcer’s horn sounded, and the crowd fell into a buzzing hush.
"ON MY SIGNAL!" he roared. "LET THE FRIENDLY MATCH... BEGIN!"
Blayzeon lowered his lance. The sunlight hit his armor just right, and the crowd actually oohed. My broom-lance sagged slightly, and the only sound on my side was Lilith shouting, "Don’t die, idiot!"
We charged. Well—he charged. I sort of... power-walked aggressively, broom out like I was late for a very violent sweeping shift.
We t in the middle. His lance hit my pot-lance with a loud BONK, and the vibration traveled straight into my wrists, making drop it.
The broom spun through the air in a perfect arc... and landed bristles-first in a nobleman’s wine glass. The noble stared at it like he’d just been handed a dead rat.
________________________________________
Blayzeon, sensing the crowd’s favor, wheeled around for another pass. His horse thundered across the dirt while I scrambled to pick up my broom, which now slled faintly of rlot.
I barely got it up in ti before he struck again—this ti, the hit spun like a cheap carnival ride. I stumbled, tripped over my own feet, and went face-first into the arena dust.
The crowd roared. Coins clinked as bets were paid. I could hear the bards taking notes.
________________________________________
By the third pass, I knew I wasn’t winning. So I decided to change the ga.
As Blayzeon approached, I sidestepped at the last second and swung my broom sideways—not hard enough to injure, but just enough to smack the side of his helt.
It made a hollow clang that echoed through the stands. His horse spooked, veering right—straight into a display table laden with ceremonial apples for the post-match feast.
The stallion slipped. Blayzeon tumbled. The apples rolled everywhere like fruity landmines.
One apple hit a noblewoman’s lap. She scread, flailing, and knocked over her wine, which poured onto the lap of the man next to her. He stood, slipped on an apple, and crashed into a server carrying a full tray of at pies.
The pies flew. One landed squarely on the King’s chestplate.
________________________________________
The arena froze. Every eye turned to the royal box.
The King—stoic, unreadable—picked the pie crust off his armor and dropped it onto the floor. Slowly, he leaned toward the Queen and muttered sothing.
The Queen covered her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was suppressing a laugh or a scream.
________________________________________
Blayzeon staggered to his feet, covered in dust and apple juice. His perfect hair stuck out at odd angles beneath his dented helt.
"This ends now," he growled.
"Agreed," I said—then grabbed a handful of apples and started pelting him.
The crowd gasped, then joined in. Suddenly, the air was full of fruit. Apples, pears, soone even threw a lon.
Blayzeon ducked behind his shield. I ducked behind my broom. The arena descended into produce-based warfare.
________________________________________
Lilith was doubled over in the stands, crying with laughter. "You’ve turned a charity match into a food riot," she wheezed.
"Hey," I shouted back, "the animals will eat well tonight!"
________________________________________
The royal steward stord into the arena, bellowing, "STOP THIS AT ONCE!" only to imdiately take an apple to the forehead and fall into the mud.
Guards rushed in to restore order, but at this point, the crowd was fully committed. The nobles were standing on their chairs to get better throws. One guard tripped on a rolling apple and took out two others like bowling pins.
Sohow, amid the chaos, Blayzeon tackled into the dirt.
"You’re a nace," he hissed.
"You’re engaged to my ex-wife," I hissed back.
We rolled around like children fighting over a toy until four guards pried us apart.
________________________________________
The aftermath was grim. We were both dragged before the King, mud-streaked and slling like an abandoned cider press.
The King rubbed his temples. "This was supposed to raise money for injured animals. Instead, you’ve injured my court."
"On the bright side," I said, "we’ve also fed them."
Lilith, standing at the back, snorted loudly.
The King sighed deeply. "Cecil, you are hereby banned from all royal events for the next year. And if you so much as look at a duck, you will be exiled."
"Define ’look’," I said.
"OUT!" he thundered.
________________________________________
As I was hauled from the hall, Lilith fell into step beside . "Well, you’ve done it. You’ve officially hit rock bottom in the social ladder."
I smirked. "Good. That ans the only way left to go... is sideways."
She grinned. "Oh no. You have another plan, don’t you?"
"Always," I said.
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