Chapter 6: Escape From the Heroic Banquet

The banquet hall of Sunspire Palace had been designed by a man who clearly believed subtlety was a form of tax evasion.

Gold climbed every pillar in curling vines. Crystal chandeliers floated beneath the painted dome like captured constellations, each one shedding warm light over tables long enough to qualify as roads. Musicians in feathered masks played silver harps from a balcony of white marble. Servants moved in choreographed rivers, bearing towers of honey-glazed pheasant, ruby bowls of pomegranate seeds, roast boar with jeweled apples in their jaws, and pastries shaped like tiny heroic swords.

At the far end of the hall, beneath a banner embroidered with the radiant lion of Valoria, Milo Finch sat in a chair that was either a throne’s ambitious younger cousin or a torture device with upholstery.

The chair’s back rose above his head in gilded spikes. The armrests ended in snarling lion heads. The cushion had been stuffed with something that appeared soft from a distance but had, over the course of forty-three minutes, revealed itself to be judgmental gravel.

To his right sat Saintess Elowen, immaculate in white and pale gold, her silver hair braided with moonblossoms that gave off a faint glow. She had the serene expression of a woman listening to harp music while mentally identifying twelve different ways to disable every person in the room.

To Milo’s left, on a smaller chair dragged reluctantly into place by three horrified footmen, sat Gribble.

The goblin wore a child-sized court jacket hastily altered with gold trim, a ruffled collar too large for his narrow green neck, and the expression of someone who had been invited to dinner only to discover that the dinner might still involve him being killed between courses. His huge ears twitched at every laugh. His yellow eyes tracked the servants, the nobles, the doors, the visible silverware, and—most attentively—the coin-purses.

“I do not like this room,” Gribble whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“That makes two of us,” Milo said, smiling politely at a baroness who had been staring at him like he was an exotic dessert.

“Too many exits.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“Too many exits means too many ambush angles.”

“Great. Love that. Very banquet.”

Across the central aisle, the nobles of Valoria watched him with jeweled eyes and hungry smiles. Dukes and marquesses. Counts with perfumed beards. Ladies with lace gloves and daggers hidden in their hair. Military lords wearing medals large enough to serve as dinner plates. Temple dignitaries robed in sanctity and expensive dye. They had all been arranged by rank, faction, influence, and probable willingness to stab each other with salad forks.

At the highest table, King Aurevan smiled like a man who had invented generosity and expected royalties. He was splendid in crimson and gold, his beard braided with sunstones, his crown resting on his brow with the ease of long practice. Beside him sat Queen Maribel, whose smile was gentler and therefore more dangerous.

And beside her, looking spectacularly bored, sat Princess Caelia of Valoria.

Milo had seen the princess once before from a distance, during the victory procession that had absolutely not been his idea and had involved him standing in a chariot while strangers threw flower petals and one alarming man threw a live chicken.

Up close, Princess Caelia looked less like a sheltered royal flower and more like someone had taken a sword, taught it etiquette, and dressed it in sapphire silk. Her dark curls were pinned with diamond combs, though several rebellious strands had already escaped. A slim circlet glittered above eyes the bright blue of lightning reflected on water. She rested her chin on one hand and rolled a grape around her plate with a knife.

Every so often, her gaze flicked to Milo.

Not worshipfully. Not greedily.

Assessing.

Like he was a locked door and she had a very interesting set of tools.

Milo took a tiny sip of wine. It tasted like blackberries, sunlight, and an income bracket he had never belonged to.

“Hero Milo,” said Duke Veyr across from him, lifting a goblet. The duke was broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, and had the kind of mustache that demanded its own introduction. “The court remains astounded by your magnanimity. To spare a goblin criminal and elevate him to the status of royal employee—why, such mercy!”

Gribble’s ears flattened.

Milo felt Elowen go very still beside him.

“Contractor,” Milo corrected.

Duke Veyr blinked. “Pardon?”

“He’s a contractor. Probationary. With clearly defined responsibilities.”

“Ah.” The duke’s smile widened without reaching his eyes. “Of course. How…innovative.”

“Also,” Gribble said, voice dry as old parchment, “not criminal. Accused criminal. Important distinction for liability.”

A spoon clattered somewhere down the table.

Duke Veyr stared at Gribble as if the roast boar had begun discussing philosophy.

Milo coughed into his napkin.

King Aurevan laughed, full and golden. The entire hall laughed half a second later, because kings were essentially laugh-track machines with armies. “Our Hero brings curious companions indeed!”

Companion, sure, Milo thought. Employee, technically. Potential future CFO if he doesn’t sell my organs to pay off municipal debt.

A translucent panel shimmered to life at the edge of his vision, invisible to everyone else.

DIVINE INTERFACE

Current Event: Heroic Banquet

Detected Objective: Social Entrapment

Suggested Tasks:

— Endure speeches: 0/17

— Accept ceremonial obligations: 0/9

— Become politically indebted: 0/∞

Recommended Action: Fake death? Delegate?

Milo nearly inhaled wine.

Do not tempt me.

The interface gave a cheerful little ping that somehow sounded smug.

Elowen leaned close, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “Your face just did the expression.”

“What expression?”

“The one you make when the glowing rectangles insult you.”

“They’re very passive-aggressive rectangles.”

“Then I advise you to plan quickly. The king has allowed them to feed you first. That means the trap begins after dessert.”

Milo looked down the endless tables. “What kind of trap?”

“Marriage proposals. Land grants with military obligations. Noble sponsorships. Patronage contracts. Oaths of fealty disguised as toasts. Possibly an honorary duchy in a haunted province.”

“Haunted how?”

“Administratively.”

Milo’s blood went cold.

Before he could answer, a servant placed a delicate tart before him. Its glazed surface reflected his horrified face.

At the far end of the hall, High Minister Orland rose from his chair, thin as a candle and twice as waxy. The chatter dwindled into expectant silence.

“Honored lords, radiant ladies, faithful servants of the crown,” Orland announced, raising both hands. His sleeves draped like theater curtains. “Tonight, we celebrate not only the arrival of the Chosen Hero, but the dawn of a new era!”

Applause filled the hall.

Milo clapped too because everyone was looking at him and he had learned in corporate meetings that clapping at the wrong time was less dangerous than not clapping at all.

“By divine providence,” Orland continued, “Hero Milo has been delivered unto Valoria in our hour of need. Already he has displayed wisdom beyond this world. Mercy beyond custom. Power beyond reckoning.”

“He made a list,” Gribble muttered.

“A very good list,” Milo muttered back.

“And now,” Orland said, eyes gleaming, “it falls upon Valoria’s finest houses to support him in his sacred quest. For what is a Hero without allies? What is destiny without the bonds of noble duty?”

Elowen’s fingers lightly touched the stem of her glass.

Milo recognized that touch. It meant she was deciding whether breaking the minister’s wrist would be diplomatically survivable.

“To begin,” Orland said, “His Majesty has graciously invited several esteemed families to offer their resources directly to the Hero’s cause.”

A noblewoman in emerald rose so fast her chair shrieked. “House Merrow offers a company of light cavalry, three hundred silver lances, and my niece Sabine, whose virtues are sung in three provinces.”

Somewhere down the table, a young woman went crimson and stared into her soup.

A lean count with hawk eyes stood before the noblewoman had finished sitting. “House Caldris offers two fortified manor estates near the western marches, along with exclusive rights to timber revenues, provided the Hero agrees to winter there each year and inspect the defenses personally.”

“House Wyrmholt offers a dragon-hunting lodge!” shouted another.

“House Bellwain offers a chapel and vineyard!”

“House Thorne offers—”

The hall erupted.

Offers came like arrows. Horses. Towers. Bodyguards. Cousins. Dowries. Oath-bound knights. A suspicious number of unmarried daughters. A private army that was apparently only slightly cursed. Three mines. A “modest” mansion with ninety-two rooms. A portrait commission. A barony. Two baronies. One viscounty whose previous holders had all died of “fog.”

Milo sat frozen, smiling with the brittle desperation of a man trapped in a subscription cancellation flow.

The Divine Interface flashed rapidly.

Warning: Incoming Obligation Cascade.

Social Commitments exceeding safe threshold.

Estimated Time to Calendar Death: 11 minutes.

Would you like to enable Crisis Delegation Mode?

[YES] [No, I Enjoy Suffering]

Milo selected YES so hard his eye twitched.

The panel unfolded into a task board across his vision, translucent columns hovering over the banquet hall.

CRISIS DELEGATION MODE ENABLED

Create Party Quests to redirect stakeholder attention.

Available Targets: 213

Morale Resources Detected: Wine, Pride, Rivalry, Petty Grievances, Unresolved Inheritance Disputes

Milo’s pulse steadied.

At last. A system he understood.

He couldn’t out-duel nobles. He couldn’t out-etiquette them. He definitely couldn’t marry seventeen cousins and inspect haunted fog estates.

But he could absolutely weaponize a meeting agenda.

He straightened, raised his hands, and projected his voice in the tone he had once used to calm an entire product team after someone deleted the production database on launch day.

“Honored nobles of Valoria.”

The hall quieted by degrees. The musicians faltered into silence. Orland’s mouth tightened.

Milo stood. His ceremonial cloak, heavy with embroidery, tried to slide off one shoulder. He caught it and pretended that was intentional.

“I’m overwhelmed by your generosity,” he said.

A satisfied murmur rippled through the room.

“And because your support is so important, I don’t want to accept any offer hastily.”

The murmur sharpened.

“Therefore,” Milo continued, “I would like to evaluate each house’s contribution through a series of Heroic Support Assessments.”

Elowen closed her eyes briefly.

Gribble’s ears perked.

Princess Caelia stopped rolling her grape.

Minister Orland frowned. “Assessments?”

“Yes,” Milo said. “Short, structured, transparent exercises designed to determine strategic alignment with the Demon Lord Defeat Initiative.”

Silence.

Then Duke Veyr stroked his mustache. “Strategic alignment.”

“Exactly.”

A countess whispered, “It sounds holy.”

“It sounds expensive,” Gribble whispered, with dawning affection.

Milo’s interface bloomed.

Create Party Quest?

Quest Name: Stakeholder Alignment Sprint

Participants: All Interested Noble Houses

Reward: Provisional Heroic Favor Ranking

Penalty: Loss of Face

[DEPLOY]

Milo deployed it.

Golden light popped into existence above every noble’s plate.

Two hundred and thirteen translucent quest cards appeared in the air.

The hall exploded.

“By the Seven!”

“It’s divine script!”

“Mine says House Bellwain must demonstrate logistical readiness!”

“Why does mine mention goat inventory?”

“Who gave the Hero our goat numbers?”

“My card is ranked silver! Why is hers gold?”

“Mother, what does ‘cross-functional synergy’ mean?”

“It means war, child.”

Milo kept his expression noble and serene while rapidly assembling more tasks.

If nobles loved anything more than power, it was being ranked in public.

He lifted one finger. “For fairness, each house will complete one initial assessment before submitting formal proposals. Saintess Elowen will oversee ethical compliance.”

Elowen opened her eyes.

For one terrible second, Milo wondered if he had gone too far.

Then she smiled.

It was the smile of a saint depicted in stained glass at the exact moment the wicked realized judgment day had a schedule.

“With pleasure,” she said.

Milo assigned her a quest.

Party Quest Assigned: Maintain Ethical Compliance

Assignee: Saintess Elowen

Objectives:

— Prevent duels before dessert

— Identify bribery attempts

— Intimidate as needed

Reward: +15 Authority, +1 Blessed Patience

Elowen’s holy aura brightened until several nearby nobles sat straighter.

“No weapons,” she announced softly.

Every hidden dagger in a thirty-foot radius rattled against its sheath.

Milo turned to Gribble. “Master Gribble will oversee financial viability.”

A sound passed through the hall like someone had stepped on a collective cat.

“The goblin?” Duke Veyr said.

Gribble slid off his chair, landed lightly, and adjusted his enormous collar. “Contractor.”

Milo flicked a quest at him.

Party Quest Assigned: Audit Noble Contributions

Assignee: Gribble

Objectives:

— Verify liquidity claims

— Detect inflated valuations

— Shame at least 3 tax evaders

Reward: Legal Standing +1, Access to Ledgers, Lunch Leftovers

Gribble read the floating card. His expression transformed.

It was not happiness.

It was something more dangerous.

Purpose.

“I require ink, parchment, three abacuses, and any noble who has recently used the phrase ‘ancestral exemption.’”

Several elderly lords went pale.

Milo almost felt bad.

Almost.

“Now,” he said, raising his glass, “let the Heroic Support Assessments begin.”

The hall became chaos wrapped in velvet.

Quest cards adjusted themselves as nobles accepted them, glowing brighter with each formal acknowledgment. Servants scrambled to rearrange side tables into makeshift stations. House banners were dragged across the floor. Scribes appeared from nowhere, because palaces apparently generated them under stress. A marquess tried to bribe Elowen with a relic and received a polite lecture so chilling that the relic dimmed in shame.

At Station One, noble houses were required to list actual deployable assets rather than “traditional influence.” At Station Two, they had to identify how many soldiers they could feed for three months without stealing from peasants. Station Three demanded succession clarity, causing two brothers to challenge each other to a duel before Elowen’s gaze pinned them both back into their chairs.

At Station Four, Gribble discovered that House Bellwain’s famous vineyard had been mortgaged eight times.

“Eight?” Milo heard the goblin bark from across the hall. “You cannot mortgage the same grapes to eight creditors unless grapes have learned to reproduce contractually!”

Lady Bellwain clutched her pearls. “How dare you!”

“With arithmetic!” Gribble snapped.

Milo moved slowly toward the side of the hall, nodding gravely at nobles too busy panicking over rankings to notice he was inching toward freedom.

Elowen drifted beside him like a beautiful execution notice.

“This is grotesque,” she murmured.

“Bad grotesque or effective grotesque?”

“Both. I have never seen a room of aristocrats become so obedient so quickly.”

“Gamification is a dark art.”

A count ran past carrying three account books and sobbing, “Find Uncle Roderick! We need to know if the cursed mill counts as liquid!”

Elowen watched him go. “I begin to understand why your world collapsed.”

“It didn’t collapse. It just had meetings.”

“That sounds worse.”

They had almost reached a side arch half-hidden behind a curtain of blue silk when a voice cut through the controlled chaos.

“Hero Milo.”

Minister Orland stood in their path.

He had not joined the assessments. Of course he hadn’t. Men like Orland did not participate in systems. They built them around other people’s throats.

His waxy smile returned, sharper than before. “A most impressive display.”

“Thanks,” Milo said. “We’re piloting the framework.”

“Indeed. Yet surely the Hero does not intend to leave before His Majesty’s formal blessing.”

Milo glanced past him. The arch opened into a servant corridor lit by small amber lamps. Freedom smelled faintly of beeswax and roasted onions.

“Just stretching my legs.”

“The royal blessing is a sacred tradition.”

“Big fan of sacred traditions.”

“It includes the presentation of the Sunbound Oath.”

Elowen’s expression cooled.

Milo felt the words land like a trapdoor opening beneath him. “What’s that?”

“A ceremonial vow,” Orland said smoothly, “binding the Hero to defend the crown, obey the rightful sovereign in matters of war, accept appointed advisors, and refrain from unsanctioned travel beyond royal supervision.”

Milo stared.

“That’s not a blessing,” he said. “That’s an employment contract with a hostage clause.”

Orland’s smile did not move. “It is tradition.”

“So was asbestos.”

“Hero?”

“Nothing.”

Behind Orland, two royal guards shifted. Not aggressively. Not yet. But their hands rested near their sword hilts, and their armor bore the sun-lion crest of direct palace command.

Milo’s heart began to hammer.

He had been joking about being trapped. Mostly joking. The banquet had seemed like a gilded ambush of social obligations, the kind where you escaped with three unwanted board seats and a cousin’s birthday invitation.

But the oath was real. The guards were real. Orland’s eyes were real, flat and patient and already imagining Milo on a leash.

Milo opened his interface.

Obstacle Detected: High Minister Orland

Type: Bureaucratic Predator

Threat Level: Severe

Recommended Countermeasures:

— Legal challenge

— Divine loophole

— Fire

— Delegate

Milo glanced at Elowen.

Her hand had vanished into her sleeve.

No fire. Probably no fire.

Then Gribble appeared at Orland’s side, clutching a stack of ledgers nearly as tall as himself.

“Minister,” the goblin said, “you are required at Station Five.”

Orland looked down with exquisite contempt. “I am required nowhere by you.”

Gribble smiled, revealing small sharp teeth. “Incorrect. The Heroic Support Assessment includes royal administrative transparency. Your department submitted an estimated provisioning budget for the Eastern Crusade Reserve.”

Orland’s face did not change.

But his fingers twitched.

“That matter is sealed.”

“Not according to the quest card.” Gribble turned one ledger around. “Also not according to this duplicate invoice showing seven thousand pounds of oats purchased for cavalry horses that died two years prior.”

The nearby guards looked at Orland.

Milo looked at Gribble with something approaching awe.

“Where did you get that?” Orland whispered.

“Your filing system is terrible,” Gribble said. “It offended me.”

The golden quest card above Orland’s shoulder flickered into existence.

Mandatory Assessment: Explain Oat Discrepancy

Participant: High Minister Orland

Objective: Reconcile 7,000 lbs of phantom oats

Time Limit: 10 minutes

Failure Penalty: Public Suspicion

A few nearby nobles noticed.

Then more.

Whispers spread with the speed of spilled wine.

“Phantom oats?”

“Orland?”

“Seven thousand pounds?”

“My cavalry requisition was denied last winter!”

Orland’s nostrils flared. For one flash, the mask cracked, and Milo saw fury beneath it—cold, old, and venomous.

Then Elowen stepped closer.

“Minister,” she said, her voice gentle as snowfall over a grave. “Transparency is a virtue.”

Orland’s jaw tightened.

The trap around the corridor loosened by one crucial inch.

Milo took it.

“Duty calls,” he said brightly. “Financial duty. Very sacred.”

Elowen moved first, sweeping through the arch. Milo followed. Gribble darted after them, still carrying ledgers. Behind them, Orland was swallowed by nobles demanding answers about oats, fodder, missing horses, and whether phantom livestock could be taxed.

The servant corridor was blissfully narrow and dim. The roar of the banquet dulled behind heavy curtains. Copper pans hung along one wall. The floor stones were warm from kitchen fires below. Servants froze as the Hero, the Saintess, and a goblin accountant hurried past.

“Good evening,” Milo said automatically.