There’s a very specific kind of dread that comes with knowing you’re about to marry a sentient puddle, while physically attached to a demon king who looks like he’d rather eat a live grenade than attend your wedding. That’s the mood as we arrive at The Infernal Banquet Hall, which looks like a Michelin-star restaurant if Gordon Ramsay had a nervous breakdown inside a volcano.

The seating chart is a crime against logic. Azaroth, as my “guardian flesh host,” has to sit next to the bride (me), but since I’m physically attached to him, that means Prince Malfador has to sit across the table… staring at my location like a shy boy on a first date. The Demon Queen sits between them, sipping molten lava like it’s herbal tea, absolutely living for the drama.

The food.

I can’t eat (no digestive tract), but they served:

* Cursed oysters that whisper your worst secrets directly into the ears of nearby guests.

* Salad made of legally haunted kale.

* And a wedding cake that’s also a prophecy bomb. Every slice predicts something awful for the couple, including, “Your firstborn will betray you to the tax demons” and “One of you will be allergic to air.”

The toast.

Prince Malfador stands—or wobbles, since he’s 90% liquid—and raises a glass. It takes three servants to hold his arm in place, and the speech is a disaster:

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“My dearest… fleshy treasure… from the first time I heard your voice echo through the cursed marshes, I knew… you were the nipple for me.”

Azaroth’s soul leaves his body.

The Demon Queen has to cover her mouth to stop laughing so hard she snorts lava.

Me? I’m too drunk on spite and attention to care. I grab control of Azaroth’s vocal cords (weird new feature I unlocked, don’t worry about it) and yell back, “I can’t wait to jiggle into eternity with you, my gooey king!”

Azaroth throws his own wine in his face to cope.

The sabotage.

Halfway through dinner, the Holy Knights crash the party because apparently someone (read: me, but drunk) predicted their commander would get stood up at prom 300 years ago and they want revenge. They storm in, chanting, “Smite the nipple!” which… fair.

Azaroth looks at me. I look at him.

He picks up an entire banquet table, hurls it at the knights like a discus, and bellows, “NOT BEFORE THE SOUP COURSE, YOU HOLY RATS.”

At some point, the prophecy cake explodes. The cursed oysters unionize. Malfador gets stress-melted into a puddle, and the Demon Queen eats two paladins whole like mozzarella sticks.

By the time the fires die down, I’m wearing a tiara made from someone’s shinbone, Azaroth is covered in marinara (no one served marinara), and Malfador quietly reforms in the corner, holding a bouquet made entirely of fingers.

Conclusion:

The wedding is tomorrow.

Azaroth has never hated me more.

Malafador has never loved me more.

And I? I’m ready to ruin holy matrimony forever.