CHAPTER 36: A FEAST FOR DISASTER

The Grand Feast of Peace, according to the palace’s propaganda pamphlet, was "a historic gathering of leaders from across the realm to celebrate unity, cooperation, and the future prosperity of all kingdoms."

According to me, it was "a historic opportunity to annoy absolutely everyone in one room."

Lilith read the pamphlet aloud at the breakfast table. "It’s not just a dinner. There’s a full-day itinerary. Speeches, symbolic handshakes, trade agreement signings—"

"—and the part where I accidentally trip Blayzeon into the soup," I interrupted.

She slapped the pamphlet down. "Cecil. This is a high-stakes political event. You will be surrounded by foreign dignitaries. You cannot—"

"—miss a single opportunity for chaos?" I guessed.

"No," she said flatly. "You cannot cause an international incident."

Mister Fog took a slow sip of tea. "We’re bringing the croissant cannon, right?"

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Step one of preparation was wardrobe. Apparently, if you want to be taken seriously at a peace summit, you need to look like you own at least three castles and a spare duchy.

Problem: I owned none of those things.

We visited a tailor in the uptown district. The man took one look at me and said, "I have nothing that will help you."

An hour later, I was standing in front of a mirror wearing a double-breasted coat lined with gold trim, a cravat so large it could be used as a sail, and boots that squeaked ominously when I walked.

Lilith squinted at me. "You look like you’re about to declare war on a dessert table."

"Perfect," I said.

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Step two was "weapon prep."

Now, I wasn’t technically allowed to bring weapons to the feast. But the royal decree only specified bladed or blunt weapons. Which meant food-based ordinance was still fair game.

In the manor kitchen, we assembled the "Feast Arsenal":

• Croissant Cannon Mk. II – reinforced barrel, faster reload.

• Stuffed Pastry Grenades – puff pastries filled with either jam or mustard, depending on how much we disliked the target.

• Diplomat’s Delight – an innocent-looking cake that collapses into a cream pie trap.

Galrik labeled each crate with "Definitely Not Weapons" in big friendly letters.

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Step three was gathering intel.

Mister Fog had contacts in the palace’s servant network — the kind of people who overhear everything. That night, we met one of them in the back room of a tavern.

The informant, a skinny man with a mop tucked under one arm, leaned in close. "Word is, the Feast isn’t just about peace. There’s talk of a secret alliance being signed. And Blayzeon’s been assigned as the King’s personal honor guard for the day."

"So," I said, "he’ll be in full armor, on edge, and standing directly between me and the soup tureens."

"Exactly," the man said.

Lilith buried her face in her hands. "This is a disaster waiting to happen."

"Correction," I said. "This is a masterpiece waiting to happen."

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By the end of the night, the plan was simple:

1. Attend the Feast looking like a respectable citizen.

2. Wait for the moment of peak political tension.

3. Strike with maximum pastry-based precision.

Lilith called it "the stupidest thing you’ve ever planned."

I called it "Tuesday."

The day of the Grand Feast began far too early for my liking. Dawn wasn’t even fully awake when Lilith started pounding on my door, demanding I get dressed before the palace’s escort arrived.

I stumbled into the ridiculous gold-trimmed coat, nearly strangled myself with the oversized cravat, and did my best to look like someone who wouldn’t be frisked at the door. Mister Fog hovered nearby, muttering about the "energy of the day" like some ominous fortune teller. Galrik, on the other hand, was grinning like a child hiding fireworks in his backpack. Which, knowing him, he probably was.

By the time we reached the palace, the courtyard was already buzzing with nobles in silks and ambassadors in uniforms. The air was heavy with expensive perfume and even heavier egos. Blayzeon stood at the main entrance in full ceremonial armor, every inch of him polished until he gleamed like an overachieving chandelier. His eyes locked on me the moment I stepped out of the carriage.

"Dreggs," he said flatly.

"Sir Quackzeon," I replied, bowing just enough to be technically polite. His jaw clenched so hard I could practically hear his teeth filing down.

Inside, the banquet hall was a monument to excess. Chandeliers the size of small villages hung overhead. The long tables were buried under roast game, towers of sugared fruit, and soups so rich they could probably afford their own staff. In the center, an enormous cake stood on a pedestal, layers stacked higher than my debt.

Lilith muttered under her breath, "Don’t even think about it."

"Think about what?" I asked, pretending to admire the cake while already calculating its structural weaknesses.

The opening speeches dragged on for what felt like years. Dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms took turns congratulating each other on their fine hats and vaguely promising not to start wars. I tried to clap in the right places, but my attention kept drifting toward Blayzeon, stationed near the King, his eyes constantly flicking toward me.

Dinner was served in courses so small I felt hungrier with each plate. A single spoonful of soup. A delicate slice of venison the size of my thumb. Some sort of green leaf that I think was legally considered food. It was an insult to stomachs everywhere.

At some point between the third and fourth course, Mister Fog leaned over. "He’s waiting for you to slip up. He’ll pounce the second you cause trouble."

"Then we make him pounce on cue," I whispered back.

I reached under the table, fingers brushing the hidden compartment sewn into my coat. The warmth of the freshly-baked croissant there felt like destiny.

Lilith’s eyes narrowed instantly. "Cecil, no."

"Cecil, yes."

And then, like fate itself had cleared the stage for me, a server passed behind Blayzeon carrying a tray of wine goblets. One small trip — a chair leg nudged into the server’s path — and a cascade of red wine splashed directly across the knight’s pristine armor.

The hall fell silent. Every head turned.

Blayzeon’s eyes burned through the slits of his helmet. "You."

I smiled. "Me."

He lunged.