CHAPTER 47: DROWNING IN DOUGHY DESPAIR

The Glimmerfen road was a muddy, miserable slog, like wading through a swamp of bad decisions and questionable life choices. Our wagon, half-broken from the dragon fight, creaked along like a grumpy old man, pulled by a horse that shot me looks of pure contempt, clearly ready to file for divorce and start a new life in a meadow somewhere. I slumped in the back, my coat caked with mud so thick it could double as armor, my glow gone, my Loafbearer powers as dead as a burnt bagel left in an oven overnight. No more summoning muffins, no turning trees into cupcakes, no spontaneous biscuit barrages. I was just Cecil Dreggs, the guy who once tripped over a chicken and lost—spectacularly. My crew—Lilith, Vorren, Jex, Yvra, Mister Fog, and the King’s walking punchlines, Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim—kept moving, their spirits annoyingly intact. But I couldn’t shake the weight in my chest, heavier than a sack of soggy flour. It wasn’t just the loss of power; it was the loss of me. The Loafbearer had been my thing, my ticket to being more than a washed-up smuggler with a rap sheet longer than a royal banquet’s guest list.

Lilith drove, her scythe strapped to the wagon like a threat to anyone dumb enough to cross her. Her sharp glances stabbed me from the driver’s seat, screaming she was one mope away from using me as kindling. Vorren sat beside her, his massive frame making the wagon tilt like a drunk seesaw, sharpening a knife with a scritch-scritch that grated on my nerves worse than a bard with a broken lute. Jex huddled in the corner, clutching his dwindling apple sack, muttering, "Dragons, cursed soup, and now mud? I should’ve stayed in bed." Yvra perched upfront, her princess posture defying the wagon’s jolts, her glare practically shouting, "Cecil, you’re embarrassing me in front of the commoners again." Mister Fog floated above, sipping tea that smelled like damp regret and soggy socks, his misty form shimmering like a judgmental cloud. Sir Thrain gripped the reins, his backward helmet wobbling like a drunk weathervane, while Sir Gorrim polished his broken sword hilt, muttering, "Honor’s resilience shines brighter than steel!"—which was nonsense, considering his hilt was now a glorified paperweight.

I stared at my hands, dull and crumb-free, not a spark of Loaf magic in sight. "What’s the point?" I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the wagon’s creaks. "I was the Loafbearer. Now I’m just... nobody with a muddy coat."

Yvra turned, her voice cutting through the fog like a freshly sharpened dagger. "Cecil, stop whining. You’re still alive, which is frankly a miracle after you tried to fight a dragon with a stick."

I slumped lower, sinking into a puddle of self-pity. "Alive, sure. But I can’t even summon a scone. Not even a dry, sad scone. I’m useless."

Vorren grunted, not looking up from his knife. "You were useless before the Loaf, mate. Didn’t stop you from mouthing off and getting us into this mess."

Jex peeked over his apples, his eyes wide. "Mate, you turned a fountain into a donut! A donut

! That’s gotta count for something. Maybe try turning this wagon into a pie?"

I shook my head, sinking deeper into my misery. "It’s gone. All of it. I’m just a guy who smells like flour, failure, and yesterday’s regret."

Mister Fog sipped his tea, his misty form shimmering like he was auditioning for a ghost role. "Power is fleeting, Cecil. You are more than your magic. Perhaps this is a lesson in humility, or at least in not eating cursed bread."

"Humility?" I scoffed, kicking a clump of mud off my boot. "I’d rather have a baguette nunchuck or a croissant catapult. You know, useful stuff."

Lilith’s voice was colder than a winter ditch. "Keep moping, Cecil, and I’ll throw you to the next dragon myself. Or maybe I’ll just tie you to the wagon as a warning to other whiners."

I ignored her, staring at the muddy road, the world as gray as a stale biscuit. Even when Thrain shouted, "Hark! A threat!" and nearly crashed the wagon into a tree—again—I barely flinched. He’d probably just seen another squirrel, or maybe his own reflection in a puddle. Gorrim cheered him on, yelling, "Valiant Thrain! Defender of the realm!" while waving his broken hilt like it was Excalibur.

But then the ground shook, and glitter—yes, glitter—exploded across the road like a unicorn had sneezed violently. A sparkling cloud engulfed us, sticking to my coat, my face, my everything, like I’d fallen into a craft shop’s worst nightmare. I coughed, waving it away, as a dozen figures emerged from the trees, draped in shimmering robes that looked like they’d raided a festival costume bin. They wielded wands that sprayed sparkles like cheap fireworks gone rogue. Their leader, a man with a beard braided with beads and a cape that screamed "I love shiny things more than dignity," raised his wand dramatically. "Hail, defilers! We are the Order of the Sparkle Wyrm, guardians of Glimmerfen’s sacred dragon! Surrender, or face the Glitter of Doom!"

I blinked, glitter lodged in my eyelashes. "Seriously? Glitter? What’s next, death by sequins?"

Lilith gripped her scythe, her eyes narrowing. "This is ridiculous. I’m not dying to sparkles. I have standards."

Vorren cracked his knuckles, glitter sticking to his beard like festive dandruff. "I hate sparkles. They get everywhere, like sand with an ego."

Jex whimpered, hiding behind his apples. "They’re gonna make us shiny and dead! I didn’t sign up for this! I just wanted to sell fruit!"

Yvra sighed, brushing glitter off her dress with the precision of a royal seamstress. "Cecil, this is your fault somehow. You probably offended a glitter fairy in a past life."

The leader waved his wand, and a wave of glitter hit the wagon, coating it in sparkles that stung like tiny, sparkly bees. "The Sparkle Wyrm demands tribute! Offer your shiniest treasure, or perish in radiance!" he bellowed, striking a pose that belonged in a bad opera.

Thrain stood, his helmet sparkling like a disco ball gone to war. "Blasphemers! You mock the crown’s honor with your bedazzled nonsense!" He thrust his lance, accidentally knocking Gorrim’s broken hilt into the air. It landed in a bush with a PLOP, and Gorrim dove after it, yelling, "My sacred steel! Betrayed by gravity!"

I slumped, not moving, glitter piling up on my coat like a shiny insult. "Go ahead. Glitter me to death. What’s the point without my powers? I’m already a sparkly failure."

Lilith shot me a look that could melt iron and probably a few souls. "Get up, Cecil, or I’ll use you as a glitter shield."

I didn’t budge. The Order charged, spraying glitter like it was a weapon of mass annoyance. Lilith leaped from the wagon, her scythe slicing through a wand, sending sparkles flying with a FWOOSH that looked like a firework had a tantrum. Vorren roared, grabbing a cultist and tossing him into a tree with a THUD, growling, "Stay sparkly, you shiny idiot!" Jex threw an apple, which exploded into glittery juice on impact, making a cultist scream, "My eyes! My fabulous eyes!" Yvra, ever the princess, dodged a sparkle blast with a twirl, then threw a dagger, pinning a cultist’s robe to the ground. "Stay there and think about your life choices," she snapped. Mister Fog conjured a mist that dulled the glitter’s sting, muttering, "This is beneath me, but I’ll allow it."

I sat there, staring at my useless hands, now dusted with glitter like a sad pastry. "I could’ve buried them in bread," I muttered. "A nice rye avalanche. Now I’m just... glitter bait."

The leader pointed at me, his beard beads jangling. "The dull one! Seize him for the Wyrm’s altar! He’ll be our least shiny sacrifice!"

I didn’t move. What was the point? I was nobody without the Loaf. The glitter kept falling, and I wondered if this was how it ended—sparkled into oblivion, the least heroic death in history.