CHAPTER 102: PORTAL SHENANIGANS AND PASTRY PANDEMONIUM

We tumbled out of Elysara’s revels like a batch of overproofed dough—puffy, disheveled, and reeking of cinnamon regret. The portal spat us into a heap on flagstones that shimmered like they’d been glazed with unicorn tears, the air thick with the zing of ozone and the faint pop-fizz of dissipating magic. My relics jangled like a drunkard’s keyring, the Heart of Glimmerfen thumping against my ribs as if applauding the chaos, while the Wyrm’s Quill sparked with a petulant zzzt, singeing the cuff of my already tragic coat. That faithful rag fluttered around me, its tears and glitter-stains a testament to battles won (mostly by accident) and doughnuts devoured. I was Cecil Dreggs, Loafbearer extraordinaire, the guy who’d once mistook a dragon’s hoard for a bakery vault and ended up with a pet wyrmling that burped buttercream. If outbaking an eldritch hunger didn’t qualify me for legend status, nothing would—except maybe surviving whatever fresh idiocy awaited in the Capital.

Lilith disentangled herself first, her scythe shing-ing free from the pile with the grace of a cat dodging bathwater. Red horns glinting under the citadel’s eternal twilight, she shot me a glare that could curdle milk. "Cecil, if your ’next waypoint’ drops us into a volcano of vindaloo, I’m feeding you to the first lava imp feet-first. And trust me, those things have opinions on footwear." Her smirk was a razor wrapped in velvet, but the way she dusted off her leathers betrayed the thrill—she lived for the lunacy, same as me, ever since that cursed well tried to audit our souls back in Flinchville.

Vorren heaved himself up next, a mountain of muscle unfolding with a crack of joints that echoed like thunder in a teacup. His knife snicked into its sheath, but his eyes—hard as forged flint—scanned the horizon like he expected the False King’s minions to pop out tap-dancing with tax forms. "Revels were cute, Dreggs, but this?" He jerked a thumb at the looming Scone-Shaped Citadel, its walls curving like a titanic pastry fresh from the abyss-oven, steam vents hiss-ing lazy curls of what smelled like regretful espresso. "Smells like a setup. One wrong crumb, and we’re the filling in some royal’s ego pie." Vorren’s growl was pure barroom bass, honed from years of cracking skulls for coin, but he’d stuck with us since the brunch betrayal—loyalty forged in flour and fury.

Jex popped up like a jack-in-the-box with a sugar hangover, his tambourine clink-clatter-ing as he scrambled for footing, glitter still winking from his curls like misplaced confetti. "Blimey, Cecil, that portal felt like gettin’ kneaded by a troll with butterfingers! Gimme a sec—oi, is that a street vendor slingin’ glowy eclairs?" His eyes lit up brighter than the quill’s sparks, fingers twitching toward his pockets with the instinct of a magpie spotting fool’s gold. Jex, our resident pinch-pilferer, had joined the circus after I accidentally "borrowed" his mark’s purse in a botched escape—now he was family, the kind who "borrowed" your socks and returned them with eldritch toe-stains.

Yvra rose with imperial sniff, her gown unfurling like a banner of disdain, utterly pristine despite the portal’s rude tumble. Dagger twink-ing at her hip, she adjusted the Crown of Cryptic Canticles atop my head (which she’d commandeered as a "temporary loan" for its riddle-spouting vibes). "Dreggs, your portals have the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a soufflé shop. If this citadel’s wards detect relic-magic without proper provenance, we’ll be explaining ourselves to a bureaucracy of bureaucratic bureaucrats." Her frost-laced tone dripped noble nectar, but her gaze lingered on the Amulet of Apocalyptic Anthems with that telltale spark—curiosity curbing her chill, ever since our divorce-fueled doughnut duel turned her from foe to fabulous frenemy.

Mister Fog simply whooshed into verticality, tea steaming eternally in his spectral grip, the aroma a baffling blend of Earl Grey and existential dread. "The scone-citadel pulses with Valthorne’s echo, Cecil—crumbly on the surface, but laced with ley-line licorice that twists fates like overtwisted pretzels. Tread lightly; the False King’s spies skulk in every sesame seed." His voice warble-ed like wind through a keyhole, cryptic as a fortune cookie written by a mad oracle, but Fog’s misty wisdom had unraveled more knots than a drunk sailor’s rope since day one.

Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim extricated themselves last, a comedy of clanks and curses. Thrain’s lance clang-ed against the stones as he surged upward—"For the crown’s crumbly conquest!"—only to hook his boot in a loose flagstone and whump face-first into Vorren’s greaves. "Dishonorable masonry!" he bellowed from the floor, helmet spin-ning like a deranged top. Gorrim, mustache twitch-ing under a fresh layer of portal-dust, hauled him up with a grunt—"By valor’s yeasty grace!"—then promptly slipped on a stray relic-spark, thud-ding into a nearby fountain with a sploosh that drenched them both. "Cursed aqueous ambush!" The knights, crown-sent clowns in chainmail, turned every advance into an accidental ballet, but their bumbling bravery had bailed us out of brambles more than once.

The Scone-Shaped Citadel loomed like a pastry god’s fever dream—walls of stratified stone mimicking flaky layers, battlements topped with "icing" merlons that drip-d illusory fondant, and a central spire twisting upward like a cinnamon swirl piercing the bruised-purple sky. Guards in armor etched with fork motifs patrolled the gates, halberds gleam-ing, but their eyes widened at our relic-radiant approach—me jangling like a mobile junk-drawer, crew fanned out in varying degrees of menace and mirth. The Heart thrum-ed approval, quill zzzt-ing directions toward a side entrance half-hidden by illusory vines that rustle-whispered riddles on the wind.

"Loafbearer approaches," one guard mutter-ed, snapping to attention with a clack of heels. "The False King’s decree: all relic-bearers to the Grand Larder for... vetting." His tone waver-ed, like he knew "vetting" meant "interrogation with extra mustard."

I flashed my most Loafbearer-y grin—the one that said trust me, it’ll be fine while screaming run if you value your kneecaps. "Vetting? Sounds delightful. Lead on—does it come with samples?" The quill spark-ed in emphasis, conjuring a tiny illusory doughnut that poof-vanished in a puff of sugar-scent, leaving the guards blinking like they’d seen a ghost with a sweet tooth.

They escorted us through the side gate, corridors winding like a scone’s innards—crumbly arches crunch-ing underfoot, walls veined with glowing conduits that pulse-hummed like overcaffeinated arteries. Whispers echoed from sconce-flares: Loafbearer... Devourer bound... False one stirs... My relics chime-d in counterpoint, the Scone of Secrets warm-ing my pocket with a conspiratorial buzz, as if giggling at the guards’ stiff spines.

The Grand Larder turned out to be less pantry, more palace—vaulted ceilings dripping with chandelier-crusts of crystalized honey, long tables groaning under platters of enchanted edibles: loaves that levitate-laughed, fruits that giggle-burst into flavor fireworks, and a central dais where the False King’s viceroy lounged like a cat in cream. He was a weaselly sort, robes embroidered with scepter-sigils, mustache twirl-ing as he eyed my trinket-trove with the hunger of a taxman spotting loopholes.

"Cecil Dreggs," he drawl-ed, voice oily as over-buttered brioche. "Bearer of Valthorne’s folly-fleet. The King demands your... inventory." His fingers steeple-d, but the Chalice of Cheesy Charms slosh-ed in response, dribbling a blob of ethereal fondue onto his boot with a splat that made it smoke faintly.

Lilith snort-ed, scythe tip-tapping the floor. "Inventory? Cute. Touch his bling, and I’ll inventory your entrails—one loop at a time." Vorren loom-ed supportively, knife gleam-ing; Jex fidget-palmed a silver spoon from the table; Yvra arch-eyed the viceroy like he was a poorly penned edict; Fog sip-smiled over his tea; and the knights salute

-stumbled into a pillar with twin thwacks, yelling "For the crown’s saucy sovereignty!" in unison.

I stepped forward, quill twirl-twirling like a conductor’s baton for the absurd orchestra. "Viceroysomeone, let’s skip the spreadsheet tango. Valthorne’s legacy isn’t for hoarding—it’s for hurling at cosmic calamities. Like your boss’s bad attitude." The relics hum-harmonized, the Amulet of Apocalyptic Anthems flare-flashing a holographic whoosh of Valthorne’s binding ritual, doughnut-devourer devouring doughnut-seal in a loop of luminous lunacy. The viceroy gape-gawked, mustache deflate-drooping, as the projection zap-zapped a nearby cheese wheel into a poof of prophetic pigeons that coo-fluttered around his head, dropping plop-precogs like "Betrayal at banquet" and "Scone spies skulk."

Chaos erupt-erupted: guards scramble-scrabbled, pigeons flap-frenzying, the viceroy yelp-yelping as a splat-droplet hit his eye. "Treachery! Seize the—" But Lilith’s scythe whirl-whirled a barrier of whoosh-wind, Vorren hurl-hurled a table like a discus of despair, and Jex snatch-snatched the viceroy’s signet ring mid-flail. Yvra command-cooed the pigeons into a feathery phalanx dive-bomb, Fog mist-misted the guards into slip-slides of spectral soap, and Thrain/Gorrim charge-clumsied into a crash-crescendo of clanking calamity, bellowing "Dishonorable drippings!" amid the din.

We bolt-bolted through a side door, relics jingle-jingling triumph, into the citadel’s underbelly—a warren of wine cellars and wonder-wards where the air thrum-thrummed with trapped spells. "That," I panted, quill smoke-smoking from overexertion, "was vetting Everest-style. What’s next, a riddle-wrapped relic heist?"

Sable’s voice echo-ed from the shadows, her form melt-melting into view with a swish of cloak. "Precisely, Doughnut Lord. The False King’s vault holds the final seal-shard—a scone-scepter hybrid that completes Valthorne’s circle. But it’s guarded by the Grumble-Golem, a bread-beast with a grudge against gluten-free heretics." Her scar gleam-gleamed, eyes spark-sparking with that rogueish relish we’d bonded over in Elysara’s ovens.

The crew chime-chimed in: Lilith grind-grinned ("Finally, something to slice"), Vorren crack-knuckled ("I’ll tenderize it first"), Jex rub-rubbed hands ("Shiny insides?"), Yvra plot-purred ("Contingencies cataloged"), Fog steep-steeped tea thoughtfully ("Its weakness? Whimsical wordplay"). The knights vow-vowed valorously, tripping over each other in a tangle-tango of enthusiasm.

We delved deeper, the underbelly unfolding into a labyrinth of drip-dripping ducts and glow-glowing grottos, relics pulse-pulsing like a heartbeat on helium. Traps trigger-twitched: pressure-plates click-clicking to summon swarm-swarms of spicy-sauce sprites that sizzle-singed our heels—until the Chalice gloop-gloopy’d a counter-cheese wave, turning them into congeal-congealed fondue fiends we splat-stomped. A riddle-door creak-creaked open only after I quill-scribble-scribed a pun-riddle ("What’s a scone’s favorite spell? Dough-minion!"), earning a groan-groan from the wards and a cackle from Jex.

At the vault’s maw, the Grumble-Golem rumble-rose—a colossal crumb-crusted colossus, fists like failed bagels, eyes flare-flaring with flour-fueled fury. It bellow-bellowed, "INTRUDERS! YE SHALL BE KNEAD-ED INTO OBLIVION!" and lunge-lunged with a whoosh-whoosh of wheat-wind.

Battle bake-broke loose in a ballet of bedlam. Lilith slash-sliced scythe-arcs that shred-shredded its crust, Vorren bash-bashed with brute ballet, Jex dodge-dodged and yoink-yoinked gem-garnishes from its joints. Yvra hurl-hurled daggers that pin-pinned pressure points, Fog enshroud-enshrouded it in mist-misdirection, knights charge-clattered into clang-collisions that chipped its chassis ("For the crown’s crumby conquest!"). I quill-flourish-flourished, relics chorus-chiming to conjure a mega-muffin missile that splat-splattered its core, the Scepter of Surreal Sagas twist-twisting the golem’s grumbles into giggle-gurgles until it crumble-collapsed in a poof of powdered regret.

Vault yawn-yawned open, the scone-scepter gleam-gleaming on its pedestal—a flaky rod topped with a raisin-rune orb, hum-humming completion. I claimed it, visions vortex-vortexing: Valthorne’s final feast, seals shattering under False King folly, a realm-reckoning rising. The circle close-closed, power surge-surging through me like espresso espresso’d thrice.

But alarms wail-wailed—wee-oo-wee-oo through the ducts. "Time to rise and run!" I yelped, crew scramble-scrambling as guards thunder-thundered in pursuit.

We blasted back through the labyrinth, traps retaliate-retaliating in reverse—sprites sizzle-sizzled back to sauce, doors slam-slamming shut only to bounce-bounce open under relic-rage. A chase churn-churned into comedy: Jex trip-tripped a guard into a splat of his own sauce, knights barrel-barreled through a crash-cordon like human wrecking croissants, Lilith leap-leapt ledges with whoop-whoops of warrior glee.

We burst into the citadel’s outer yard, portal shimmer-shimmering at the scone-wall’s base—quill-zap-zapping it wide. The viceroy screech-screeched from afar, "You’ll pay for this pastry perfidy!" but we dive-dived through, whoosh-whooshing to... wherever next, scone-scepter throb-throbbing triumph.

Panting in the post-portal plop, Lilith jab-jabbed my ribs. "Not bad, Doughnut Dunderhead. But next time, let’s steal something less... crumbly."

I grin-grinned, relics settle-settling into sated song. "Where’s the fun in that? Onward—to False King follies and hopefully fewer golems."

The crew chortle-chortled, the citadel fading like a bad bake. Shenanigans? Just warming up.