CHAPTER 42: THE ROYAL ERRAND

The manor’s kitchen smelled like old wine, regret, and whatever Jex had been cooking that left a green stain on the ceiling. I lay sprawled on the floor, still feeling like a jelly-filled donut after my Loafbearer powers had turned my bones to pudding. The glow of the First Loaf’s crumbs flickered on my skin, making me look like a disco ball with a bad attitude. Lilith leaned against the counter, sharpening her scythe with a scritch-scritch that promised violence. Vorren hulked in the corner, polishing a dagger the size of my arm. Jex was rummaging through the pantry, muttering about cursed soup recipes. Mister Fog floated above the table, sipping tea that smelled like existential dread. And then there was Yvra Bororo, my ex-wife, standing in the doorway like she was about to deliver a royal decree or a divorce settlement. Spoiler: I’d already signed the papers for the latter.

"Cecil," Yvra said, her voice sharp enough to cut bread without a knife, "do you have any idea why I’m here?"

I propped myself up on my elbows, trying to look charming despite the flour dusting my hair. "Missed my sparkling personality? Wanted to admire my new Loafbearer glow?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture I remembered from our marriage—usually followed by her throwing something at me. "No, you idiot. I’m here because King Valthorne’s knights are too lazy to drag their armored backsides out of the palace to fetch you. Apparently, they think chasing a glowing bread criminal is beneath them."

I blinked. "Wait. You’re a princess. Why’d they send you?"

Yvra’s eyes narrowed, and I swear the room got colder. "Because, Cecil, the court’s a bunch of chauvinistic twits who think a woman’s place is running errands for men too busy polishing their egos. They handed me a royal summons like I’m a glorified messenger pigeon." She smirked, but it was the kind of smirk that said she’d already poisoned someone’s wine over this. "Joke’s on them. I’m here to make sure you don’t ruin my family’s name any more than you already have."

Lilith snorted, not looking up from her scythe. "He’s doing a fine job of that without your help."

"Oi," I said, sitting up. "I’m the Loafbearer now. I’m practically a national treasure."

"A national disaster," Vorren rumbled, his voice like gravel in a blender.

Jex popped out of the pantry, holding a jar of what looked like glowing pickles. "Mate, you turned a fountain into a donut. The King’s probably got a bounty on you higher than the palace spires."

Yvra tossed a parchment onto the table, sealed with Valthorne’s gaudy wax crest—a lion eating a pie. "He does. And he wants you in the throne room. Now."

I groaned, hauling myself to my feet. My legs still wobbled, but the Loaf’s power buzzed in my chest, ready to summon a bagel or blow up a building. "Fine. Let’s go see what His Majesty wants. Probably another feast I can ruin."

Mister Fog sipped his tea, raising an eyebrow. "Be cautious, Cecil. Valthorne’s feasts are traps wrapped in pastries."

The road to the palace was less a road and more a suggestion, paved with mud, rocks, and the occasional sheep that glared like it knew my life story. We piled into a rickety cart borrowed from a neighbor who owed Vorren a favor. Lilith drove, her scythe strapped to the side like a warning sign. Jex sat in the back, clutching his jar of cursed pickles. Yvra perched upfront, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. I lounged beside her, trying to flex my glowing fingers without accidentally turning the cart into a croissant.

Halfway to the palace, the Loaf’s power flared again. I pointed at a passing tree, and—POOF!—it sprouted muffins instead of leaves. A squirrel took one look, grabbed a muffin, and sprinted off like it had just won the lottery.

"Cecil, stop it," Yvra snapped. "You’re leaving a trail of baked goods. We’ll have every thief in Bramblehook after us."

"Let ’em come," I said, grinning. "I’ll bury them in scones."

That’s when the wheel hit a rock, and the cart lurched. Jex’s pickle jar flew, smashing against a tree and releasing a cloud of green smoke that smelled like regret and dill. The smoke coalesced into a tiny, angry pickle demon, hissing like a kettle.

"WHO DARES DISTURB MY SLUMBER?" it squeaked, brandishing a tiny fork.

Lilith sighed, grabbing her scythe. "This is your fault, Jex."

"Wasn’t me!" Jex yelped, diving behind Vorren. "Blame the jar!"

I raised my hand, summoning a loaf of rye that—THWACK!—smacked the demon into a puff of green vapor. The crew stared at me, impressed despite themselves.

"See?" I said. "Loafbearer. Totally in control."

Yvra muttered something about divorce being her best decision ever.

The palace loomed ahead, its spires gleaming like they were mocking my life choices. Guards ushered us into the throne room, where King Valthorne sat on his golden throne, looking like a man who’d eaten one too many pies and regretted none of them. His beard was braided with gold, his robes screamed "I’m rich," and his eyes twinkled with the kind of cunning that made you check your pockets.

"Cecil Dreggs," he boomed, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "The Loafbearer. The man who turned my fountain into a pastry and summoned a gluten demon in my city."

I bowed, mostly to avoid tripping over my own ego. "Your Majesty, I aim to entertain."

Valthorne leaned forward, smirking. "You’ve entertained enough. Your bounty’s higher than my tax revenue. But I’m a generous king. I’ll let you work it off."

I raised an eyebrow. "Work it off? Like, what, scrubbing dishes?"

He laughed, a sound like coins rattling in a velvet bag. "No, no. You’ll serve as a mercenary for the Kingdom of Glimmerfen. They’re dealing with... let’s call it a dragon problem. You and your little band of misfits will handle it. Or I’ll have you baked into a pie for the next feast."

Lilith’s scythe twitched. Vorren cracked his knuckles. Jex whimpered. Yvra just sighed, like she’d expected this.

"No choice, huh?" I said, feeling the Loaf’s power hum in my chest. "Fine. But I’m bringing my crew."

Valthorne waved a hand. "Take them. And to ensure you don’t run, I’m sending two of my finest knights. Sir Thrain! Sir Gorrim!"

Two armored figures stepped forward, looking like they’d been carved from stone and bad decisions. Sir Thrain was tall, with a jaw so square it could cut glass, and eyes that screamed "I follow orders." Sir Gorrim was shorter, broader, with a mustache that looked like it had its own personality. Both radiated seriousness, but Thrain’s helmet was on backward, and Gorrim’s sword was stuck in its scabbard, making a clunk-clunk sound as he tugged at it.

"These are your escorts," Valthorne said, smirking. "Don’t disappoint me, Loafbearer."

I saluted, mostly to annoy him. "Let’s go slay a dragon, team. And maybe grab some snacks on the way."

The palace gates slammed shut behind us with a BANG that felt like King Valthorne laughing at my life. Our crew—me, Lilith, Vorren, Jex, Yvra, and the two new knights, Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim—piled into a wagon that looked like it had been built by someone who hated wagons. The wood creaked, the wheels wobbled, and the horse pulling it gave me a look that said, "I’d rather be glue." Sir Thrain sat upfront, gripping the reins like they’d personally insulted him. Sir Gorrim sat in the back, still wrestling with his stuck sword, muttering about "dishonorable scabbards."

I leaned back, letting the Loaf’s power hum through me. My fingers still glowed faintly, and I was pretty sure I could summon a biscuit if I sneezed. "So," I said, nudging Yvra, "you sure you want to tag along? Dragon-slaying’s not exactly princess-friendly."

She glared, adjusting her pristine dress. "I’m here to make sure you don’t turn Glimmerfen into a bakery, Cecil. And to remind you that I’m not cleaning up your messes anymore."

Lilith smirked from the driver’s seat. "Good luck with that. He’s a walking mess."

Vorren grunted, sharpening a knife that looked like it could carve a mountain. "Dragon, huh? Better not be one of those fire-breathing types. I’m not fireproof."

Jex, clutching a sack of non-cursed apples he’d swiped from the palace, whispered, "I’m just here for the loot. Dragons have hoards, right?"

Mister Fog floated above us, his tea steaming ominously. "Glimmerfen’s dragons are notorious. Scales like iron, breath like a furnace, and an unhealthy obsession with riddles. Be prepared."

Sir Thrain turned, his backward helmet making him look like a confused owl. "Silence, rabble! We are on a sacred mission for King Valthorne. You will show respect!"

Gorrim, still yanking at his sword, nodded solemnly. "Indeed. The honor of the crown rests upon us." He tugged too hard, fell backward, and landed in a pile of hay, his mustache quivering like an offended caterpillar.

I snorted. "Yeah, we’re in great hands."

The road to Glimmerfen was a nightmare of bumps, mud, and random chickens that seemed to have a vendetta against our wagon. Sir Thrain drove with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb, shouting "Halt!" at every squirrel or leaf that crossed our path. Gorrim, meanwhile, gave up on his sword and started reciting the Knight’s Code of Valor, which sounded like a grocery list for honor: "Duty, courage, polished armor, no dessert before dinner..."

I couldn’t resist. I pointed at a nearby bush, and—ZAP!—it turned into a giant cupcake, complete with sprinkles. A passing fox took one look, grabbed a chunk of frosting, and bolted.

"Cecil!" Yvra snapped. "Stop that!"

"What? It’s just a cupcake. Loafbearer perks, you know?"

Thrain spun, nearly crashing the wagon. "You dare defile nature with your unholy pastry magic?"

"It’s not unholy," I said, grinning. "It’s delicious."

Gorrim, climbing out of the hay, pointed at me. "Cease your sorcery, Loafbearer, or I shall... I shall..." He tugged at his sword again, only for the hilt to snap off with a sad ping. He stared at it, then sat down, muttering about "cursed craftsmanship."

Lilith laughed, a rare sound that made even Vorren pause. "These knights are going to get us killed before the dragon does."

The wagon hit another bump, and Jex’s apple sack spilled, sending fruit rolling everywhere. One hit Thrain in the back of the head, and he shouted, "Ambush!" before diving under the seat. Gorrim stood, heroically tripping over an apple and face-planting into the wagon floor with a THUD.

I clapped slowly. "Valthorne’s finest, huh?"

Yvra sighed, rubbing her temples. "I should’ve stayed in the palace."

Mister Fog sipped his tea, unfazed. "The dragon will be the least of our worries."

As night fell, we camped by a river, the wagon parked under a tree that looked suspiciously like it was judging us. Thrain insisted on standing guard, holding a lance upside-down and reciting poetry about duty. Gorrim tried to start a fire but accidentally set his cloak ablaze, running in circles until Vorren doused him with a bucket of river water.

-TO BE CONTINUED-