In the dappled shade of Grumblegrove, a boy of profoundly average ambition went about his thoroughly uneventful chores.

His name was Nedrick Prince—not an actual figure of royalty, but rather a peasant by trade and by temperament. At the ripe old age of sixteen-and-a-bit, Nedrick had already come to the serene conclusion that he had no particular desire to be a hero, wizard, dragon-slayer, or anything that involved prolonged periods of running, shouting, or unsolicited destiny.

He fed pigs. That was, like, his thing, man.

Clad in trousers that had seen better decades and his favourite green vest, Nedrick moved with the steady grace of a boy who knew exactly how not to spill slop. The pigs—one-eyed Gertie, a perpetually befuddled one in a little straw hat named Ploop, and the unusually hairy one he'd named Sir Snuffles the Third (there had never been a First or a Second, mind you)—each exited the pen and gathered around in expectant, porcine reverence.

It was at this precise moment, in the peace of pig-feeding and the wafting aroma of fermented turnips, that a distant sound crept into Nedrick's periphery.

At first, it was a whistle. Then a scream. Then a cacophonic bluster of "WHEEEEEE—OH, NO—WAIT, NOOOOOO!"

And then—CRASH!

The thatched roof of the pig pen exploded in a theatrical spray of straw and splinters. A young man plummeted through it like a meteorite in velvet leggings, landing squarely in the trough, legs akimbo and his nice sunset-orange suit thoroughly drenched in the remains of breakfast—turnip stew.

The pigs applauded politely. They were, after all, familiar with spectacle.

"LUCIAN?!?" Nedrick cried, dropping his slop bucket in sheer bewilderosity.

The crowned figure flailed upright, covered in an unholy mélange of mud and slop. "COUSIN! Hail and well-met! Also... ow."

Nedrick pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lucian, why—how—did you fall from the sky into my pig trough again? That's the third time this month!"

Prince Lucian beamed, revealing teeth as white as sugar cubes. "Long story involving a trebuchet, and a stingy goblin named Spleenbucket who sells blank scrolls for way too much gold. But more importantly—adventure awaits!"

"No," said Nedrick almost immediately. "No, it does not. You go away. I've got pigs. They're expecting consistency."

"But my prophecy!" Lucian exclaimed, producing a scroll so dramatically long that it unrolled to the ground and down the hill. He then broke into a hastily put-together rap number: "You are the one foretold to help me out, yo! The Squinting Shepherd in the Shadows! The One Who Inadvertently Knows, and uh... throws prose at the schmoes?"

Nedrick assessed the scroll (which contained nothing but bad rhymes written in crayon) and then stared at Lucian as one might stare at a talking loaf of bread. "You made that up."

"Technically, yes. But I did it in rhyming couplets, which means it's practically gospel in bardic law."

"I don't want to be in your prophecy," Nedrick muttered, stepping past Lucian to retrieve his slop bucket. "I want to feed my pigs, mend my roof—again, no thanks to you—and live a life entirely devoid of enchantments."

"Fine, okay, the realm doesn't need you—but I do!" Lucian insisted, crumpling up his hand-made prophecy scroll and slam-dunking it into the bushes. "It's official. Screw the elders, man! Cuz this branch is splitting off the family tree and forging his own destiny—and you're gonna help me get started!" 

With an underwhelmed sigh, Nedrick gestured to the pig pen. "The pigs need me more. Sir Snuffles gets anxious when his schedule changes. The last time I was ten minutes late, he tried to declare independence."

Lucian pouted in princely disbelief as he finally swiped off some of the debris from himself. "You're really choosing pigs over glory?"

"I'm choosing mental stability over narrative chaos, thank you very much." Nedrick turned to examine the gently smouldering remnants of the pig pen with a slow shake of his head. 

Prince Lucian, now brushed off and only mildly crusted in pig remnants, sat upon an upturned feed bucket with the theatrical poise of someone used to orating from balconies. Nedrick stood nearby, arms crossed, brow furrowed in the universal expression of "I'm about to deeply regret asking a follow-up question."

"...So, for clarification's sake," Nedrick said slowly, as if the words might somehow behave better at reduced speed. "You're setting out to make your own kingdom?"

"Yes!" Lucian declared, springing up and nearly knocking over a wheelbarrow. "A glorious kingdom! With glistening towers, rivers of fine cuisine, and fair maidens who swoon on cue!"

"Then, you're running away from home? Is that the TL;DR version?"

"Correction," Lucian said, raising a finger. "I'm 'moving out.' I'm nineteen years old, and thirteenth in line to a throne I barely remember the shape of. I'm so far down the royal roll call, they think I'm a freelance nephew or something! Last Winter Solstice, Aunt Ophelia got my name wrong and called me 'Limpet.'"

Nedrick blinked. "Is that even a name?"

"I asked her that," Lucian replied with a wounded sniff. "She said it was 'close enough.'"

He turned away dramatically, hands on his hips, gazing into the middle distance with the soulful longing of a romantic poet. Or in Lucian's case, someone who had once seen a delicious snack cart and never forgotten it.

"And if that weren't enough," he continued, "the Royal Prophecy lists every one of my siblings as future heroes. Gryffon, the Beast-Binder. Isla, the Star-Sworn. Maurice, the Wielder of the Flaming Butter Knife."

"The butter knife?"

"Yeah, turns out it's a family heirloom. Enchanted, toasts bread from thirty paces away..." Lucian clapped his hands suddenly. "But it's official! I've been left out completely!" 

The oracles of the Kingdom of Simharra were, at one point in time, gifted daily prophetic visions by the cosmic race of unseen celestial beings known as the Nymbricae. In fact, the glorious destinies of Lucian's twelve siblings had been determined long before any of them had even been born. And so, after years of Lucian pushing and begging the oracles to get their act together, the old buggers had finally agreed to devote the day to holding a massive meditative prayer-session. 

Nedrick could only take all of this to mean that today's ceremony had gone less than well. 

"The oracle got as far as 'I got nuthin', man—' and then sneezed so hard she flew out the window without further explanation!" Lucian recapped as he paced back and forth. "Everyone assumes that means I'm not important."

Nedrick opened his mouth, then wisely chose to shut it again.

"But!" Lucian spun around, finger pointed skyward. "I refuse to accept fate's footnote! I shall forge my own destiny. Start my own kingdom! One with cool flags, sensible taxation, and hopefully a babe or two who's into quirky monarchs. Look, I've already designed the banners!" He whipped out a little square of parchment from inside his pocket with a scratchy little doodle on it. "Behold: a flaming llama wearing sunglasses. Beneath it, the motto: 'Coolness Before Cruelness.'"

Nedrick stared. "All right, I'll concede to one minor point... that is surprisingly catchy."

"And you," Lucian said, stepping forward and gripping Nedrick's shoulders with the intensity of a man offering a mildly cursed amulet, "shall be my right-hand man! My confidant! My general of pig-based logistics!"

"But I don't know anything about running a kingdom!"

"Neither do I! We'll figure it out together along the way; it's perfect!" Lucian beamed, clearly convinced this was airtight reasoning. "Come with me, Ned. Let us embark on a journey of glory, self-determination, and above-average Wi-Fi! I heard the gnome village nearby has five magical bars of signal!"

Nedrick hesitated. Deep within his very soul, a small voice—probably his common sense—was screaming, "Say no and hide in a compost heap until this passes like all his other hair-brain ideas."

But then Lucian leaned in and whispered, "And I'll make you a Baron."

"A Baron? Dude, that's barely above a knight!" he countered. "Make me a Duke!"

Lucian staggered. "A Duke? Hey, I'm not made of duchies, man!"

"I want a dukedom for my pigs!" Nedrick demanded with a stomp of his foot. One-eyed Gertie gave a reproachful snort beside him. "Do you want my logistical prowess, or not?"

Lucian rubbed his chin, squinting thoughtfully. "Viscount. Final offer. Comes with a velvet sash and discretionary livestock privileges."

Nedrick considered. He thought of pigs, thatched roofs, and a life of comfortable anonymity... and then he thought of sashes. He'd always wanted a cool sash.

"...Deal," he said, and they shook hands solemnly. Somewhere in the grove, thunder rolled ominously, as if the universe had just realized it would now have to deal with these two.

And so it was that Nedrick Prince, part-time slop-distributor and full-time avoider of drama, found himself on the brink of a journey of indeterminate length, unclear purpose, and highly suspicious leadership.

But Lucian was beaming. Beaming like a boy who had just stolen destiny's steering wheel.

Nedrick looked to Sir Snuffles, and sighed. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

Sir Snuffles oinked sagely.

And thus began the greatest adventure no one ever intended to have.