CHAPTER 37: THE PEACE THAT WASN’T

The moment Blayzeon lunged, the entire hall went from dignified murmurs to pure chaos. The King’s goblet froze halfway to his lips, foreign dignitaries gasped like they’d just watched a puppy get kicked, and the orchestra screeched to a stop mid-song.

I dodged left, narrowly avoiding a war loaf–sized gauntlet swinging at my head. The unfortunate ambassador from Vorsk caught the backdraft and toppled into a tureen of pumpkin soup.

Blayzeon recovered fast. "You’ve just declared war on table manners!"

"That’s the only war I’m willing to fight," I said, vaulting over the roast swan centerpiece. My boot clipped its wing, sending it tumbling into the lap of a very startled duchess.

She screamed. The scream triggered two other screams. Then, like some bizarre social chain reaction, the entire hall erupted in shouts, clattering dishes, and the unmistakable sound of someone smacking someone else with a leg of lamb.

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Blayzeon chased me along the banquet table, each stomp scattering plates and goblets in his wake. I grabbed the nearest edible object — a glazed ham — and rolled it down the table toward him.

He swatted it aside with his war loaf, but the force sent the ham spinning into the air before it landed squarely in the lap of the Prince of Marendral.

The prince stood, dripping honey glaze. "This is an insult to my people!"

The King tried to stand and calm the room, but someone — possibly Galrik — had already launched the first pie. It sailed majestically across the hall and struck the Minister of Trade in the face.

The minister retaliated with a plate of roasted quail. And just like that, the Grand Feast of Peace became the Siege of the Buffet.

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I ducked under the table, crawling past a pair of nobles dueling with crab legs. My hand found the hidden croissant in my coat. I loaded it into the miniature launcher strapped to my wrist — a little invention Mister Fog had whipped up for me the night before — and popped out the other side of the tablecloth.

Blayzeon was there, towering over the dessert table like some vengeful colossus. "Last chance to yield."

I fired. The croissant hit him square in the visor.

There was a satisfying whump as the enchanted dough expanded instantly, blinding him. He stumbled backward into the cake pedestal.

I’ll give him credit — he didn’t go down easy. He managed to tear the croissant free just as the cake began its slow, majestic collapse... straight onto him.

By the time it hit, he was buried under three tiers of buttercream and diplomatic outrage.

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The King slammed his goblet down. "Enough!"

Everyone froze. Even the duchess still clinging to the roast swan stopped mid-scream.

"Cecil Dreggs," the King said, voice trembling with royal fury, "you have managed, in under ten minutes, to turn a historic peace summit into a food riot of international proportions. I am adding thirty-seven new charges to your record before the day is out."

I wiped frosting from my cheek. "That’s a personal best."

The King pinched the bridge of his nose. "Guards. Remove him."

As they dragged me toward the exit, Blayzeon burst free from the cake like a sugar-coated nightmare. "Dreggs! You will not escape me!"

"Technically," I called back, "I’m being escorted."

The guards dragged me through the palace halls like a sack of contraband potatoes, ignoring my repeated offers to "explain the situation" and "sell them reasonably priced bakery goods." My boots squeaked against the marble floor — part from my own struggling, part from the layer of buttercream still stuck to them.

We descended into the lower levels, the air growing colder and damper with each step. The dungeon smelled like mildew and political regret. Iron bars lined both sides of the narrow corridor, each cell housing some unfortunate soul who had annoyed the wrong noble.

They tossed me into the last cell on the left and slammed the door. The lock clicked with the finality of a slammed book.

"Enjoy your stay, Dreggs," one guard muttered.

"Don’t worry," I said. "I intend to redecorate."

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It took about thirty seconds before someone in the next cell spoke.

"Cecil Dreggs?"

I turned. Behind the bars was a wiry man with a patchy beard, sharp eyes, and a grin that made me instinctively check my pockets.

"Depends who’s asking," I said.

"Name’s Jex," he said. "Used to run the black-market soup trade before the King’s goons shut me down. Heard about you. You’ve got... potential."

"Potential for what?"

"For trouble," he said. "And I’ve got an idea that could use a man like you."

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Before I could answer, there was a loud metallic clunk from the far end of the hall. A cell door swung open, and a huge figure stepped out. He had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the archway.

The guards didn’t seem alarmed — which was odd — and simply left him to stroll down the corridor like he owned the place. He stopped in front of my cell and peered in.

"You’re the one who buried Blayzeon in a cake," he rumbled.

I considered lying, but then thought better of it. "Yes. And it was a beautiful cake."

The man grinned, revealing teeth like tombstones. "Name’s Vorren. I run things down here. And I like your style."

I leaned against the bars. "Funny. I was just thinking I could use some new friends."

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By the time night fell, I’d learned two things:

One — Vorren controlled the smuggling routes through the palace’s old escape tunnels.

Two — the Grand Feast had ended in such diplomatic disaster that at least three kingdoms had walked out mid-dessert. The city was buzzing, and the King was apparently holding me personally responsible for "the collapse of regional stability."

"Congratulations," Jex said through the wall. "You’ve just made yourself the most wanted man in three countries."

I shrugged. "I’ve always liked to keep busy."

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Footsteps echoed in the corridor. A familiar voice hissed, "Cecil, get up."

Lilith appeared at the bars, a ring of keys in her hand. "You’ve been in here for twelve hours and the King already doubled the bounty on your head. We’re leaving."

Vorren stepped forward. "If he’s leaving, I’m leaving too."

Lilith scowled. "Fine. But if you slow us down, I’ll feed you to the first guard dog I see."

And just like that, I was no longer just escaping the dungeon — I was walking out with a smuggler, a giant, and the distinct feeling that whatever came next was going to make the Grand Feast look like polite tea time.