A Royal Pain in the Ass

There is no sound quite as ominous as the clop-clop of royal horses pulling up outside your inn the day after surviving an interdimensional death gauntlet.

Especially when those horses are pulling a carriage so obnoxiously gold, it looked like it had been dipped in tax fraud.

I watched through the curtains as the guards stepped out, their armor gleaming, their capes fluttering dramatically despite there being no wind. One of them was holding a scroll so long it trailed behind him like a wedding dress.

"We're gonna die," I muttered into my tea.

Lilith was unbothered. She was polishing her blades and humming a lullaby that could only be described as aggressively Slavic. Galrik was doing push-ups with Mister Fog balanced on his back, reading a cookbook titled "Boiling the Soul: Culinary Arts from the Abyss."

The door burst open.

"By royal decree of Her Highness, Queen Dione the Merciful (But Only on Tuesdays), the party of Floor Ten is hereby summoned to the capital to receive commendation, recognition, and probable entanglement in political schemes far beyond your mental capacity."

Pause.

"Also there will be cake."

Mister Fog levitated up, eyes glowing. "Cake…?"

Lilith leaned her sword against the table. "I don't trust cake."

I stood up, clutching my mug like a holy relic. "Can I… opt out?"

"No," the royal messenger said with a smile far too wide for someone who'd just threatened me with compliments.

We were given an hour to pack.

Which meant they packed for us.

Galrik mourned his rock collection. Mister Fog tried to sneak an entire haunted wardrobe into the carriage and was almost tackled by five guards. Lilith didn't pack anything. She simply opened a hidden pocket in her coat and revealed everything she had ever owned, including a live raven and a single grenade.

I, meanwhile, stood in my room, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror.

"You're not special," I reminded myself. "You didn't save anyone. You screamed through most of Floor Ten."

Then I paused.

"…but you're still here."

I wasn't proud of how I survived, but I had survived. Despite every cursed door, sentient spreadsheet, and reality-melting vision board… I was here. Alive.

Possibly traumatized. But alive.

And now I was being summoned to the capital like some kind of… hero?

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. I refuse the call to adventure. I rebuke it. I un-subscribe.

"Too late," Lilith said from behind me, scaring the absolute sin out of me. "Let's go, Coward King."

"Can we please not call me that outside the inn?"

"No promises."

The carriage ride was quiet. Which, in this group, meant something horrible was going to happen soon.

Galrik kept asking if nobility had protein shakes.

Mister Fog was writing something in a language that looked like it bled.

I tried to nap, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw Floor Eight's therapy circle and that talking plushie who knew too much.

Lilith sat beside me, legs crossed, sharpening a dagger on a bone. I didn't ask where the bone came from.

"I hate this," I muttered.

"I know," she said. "That's why I'm here."

It was a weird kind of comfort. Like being told the executioner was your ride-or-die.

I peeked out the window.

The Capital of Evareth was just coming into view.

Sprawling spires. Gleaming towers. Banners flapping in smug synchrony. Streets lined with statues of old heroes—who all looked constipated with glory.

And at the center?

A castle shaped like someone screamed "symbolism!" and then threw gold at a hill until it obeyed.

Mister Fog's eyes widened. "Ah, yes. The place where dreams are taxed and emotions are illegal. I've missed this hellhole."

"Why were you ever here?" I asked.

He smiled. "Jury's still out."

The carriage rolled up to the gates. Trumpets blared.

I flinched.

"Relax," Galrik said, patting my back with enough force to dislocate my lungs. "We're gonna be famous!"

I whispered the only prayer I knew:

"Please, gods of cowardice, grant me invisibility or a fatal nosebleed. Either works."

The throne room was large enough to fit an entire village, and yet somehow still managed to smell like overcooked lavender and fear.

I stood in a row with the rest of my party, hands sweating, knees aching, and heart actively considering unemployment. At the far end of the marble corridor sat Queen Dione—elegant, terrifying, and draped in so much silk it looked like she was being slowly devoured by curtains.

Her crown was sharp enough to be illegal in three kingdoms. Her throne looked like it had been assembled from the stolen dreams of peasantry. She raised one brow at us, a single, regal flicker of amusement.

Then she smiled.

"Oh, so these are the heroes," she purred.

I almost collapsed on instinct.

"Lilith Nightvale," she continued, motioning to the bloodthirsty goddess next to me. "Slayer of the Nine-Eyed Behemoth. Your bounty has been… erased. For now."

Lilith gave a bow so low I thought she might lunge.

"Galrik Stonefist. You… arm-wrestled a living dungeon door open."

"TWICE," Galrik said proudly, flexing in what was now canonically a royal palace.

The queen chuckled.

"And Mister Fog," she said, her voice dipping just slightly. "We meet again."

Mister Fog took off his hat and bowed, revealing his floating third eye. "You still owe me a drink and an apology, Your Highness."

"Never," she whispered.

Then she turned to me.

And paused.

"...And this must be Cecil."

That was it.

No title. No feat. Just my name, like it was a punchline she'd been saving all week.

I tried to bow and accidentally knocked over a ceremonial staff. It clattered. The guards twitched. Lilith facepalmed. Galrik muttered, "Nice."

The queen raised a perfectly manicured hand.

"Rise, Cecil. You are the only one who didn't try to punch, burn, or seduce their way through the dungeon. That takes a rare kind of survival instinct."

"Uh. Cowardice?" I offered.

"Exactly," she said with a wink. "Which is why I'm assigning you as Royal Emissary to Things We Don't Want to Deal With."

"What."

"You'll represent the crown in tasks too stupid or dangerous for actual nobles. You'll be given authority, immunity, and a very loud bell to ring when things go to shit."

I blinked. "So I'm your scapegoat?"

"Precisely," she beamed. "But you'll get dental."

After the ceremony, we were ushered into the royal guest quarters.

Lilith tested the walls for traps.

Galrik dove into the feast like it was arm day.

Mister Fog found a mirror and whispered ancient curses to it until it shattered out of respect.

I sat on my new bed, staring at the velvet canopy and the tray of sweets next to it.

"…I'm a government official now," I said to no one.

Then I screamed into a pillow for ten full minutes.

Later that night, I snuck out to the castle gardens.

It was quiet. Peaceful. No alarms. No screams. No cursed mosaics or eldritch riddles.

Just a guy who had barely survived being chewed up and spat out by a legendary dungeon… now being courted by politics like some glorified pawn.

I plopped onto a bench.

"Cecil?"

I turned. Lilith stood there, arms crossed, eyes softer than usual.

"You alright?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "This doesn't feel real."

She nodded. "You got called a hero by a woman who owns seven assassination squads. Nothing about this is real."

I laughed. "Thanks. That helps."

She sat next to me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she said, "We're not done, you know. This—this 'peace'? It's bait."

I sighed. "Can't I get one chapter of rest?"

"No."

"Not even a filler episode?"

"Maybe a hot spring one. But only if someone dies."

And just like that, the breeze picked up. Somewhere in the distance, a scream echoed faintly.

The world was waiting.

And tomorrow?

We'd answer. Begrudgingly. Exhaustedly. Probably while on fire.

But for now…

Just one night.

No monsters.

No dungeons.

Just us.

And a very angry garden gnome peeking at us from behind a bush holding a scroll labeled: "URGENT QUEST: STUPIDEST SHIT EVER."