Nedrick had many regrets in his short life, but for the moment, he was only concerned about three:

Regret #1: Agreeing to travel with Prince Lucian.

Regret #2: Not insisting on travel insurance or a map.

Regret #3: Letting Lucian choose their route, which so far consisted of "wander vaguely downhill and trust the vibes."

They had been walking for two days, having run out of food on day one. This was because Lucian had the appetite of a starved horse. Recently, the two had been sustained only by wild berries, a stale baguette Lucian had stolen from a street mime, and the raw power of delusional optimism.  

"This is great!" Lucian announced for the fifth time that morning. "We are roaming rogues of the realm! Knights of nebulous purpose! Vagabonds of victory!"

"We are lost," Nedrick muttered. "I've been walking so long that my thighs feel like they've been chewed on by an overly-enthused yak."

They promptly set up their camp (which was built simply with the random garbage they'd found along the way) and were now on the hunt for something that at least vaguely resembled food. Just as morale began to resemble a wilted lettuce leaf, they rounded a bend and stumbled into the bustling town of Wiggleshire-on-the-Moat, famous for its medieval street mimes and above-average root beer.

And there, right at the entrance, stood a billboard. An enormous, sparkly billboard.

It featured an absurdly handsome man with flowing blond hair, winking atop a unicorn while holding a lute. Glitter shone from the very ink. The caption read:

PRINCE CHARMING:

Champion of the Realm!

Slayer of Beasts!

Winner of Three Consecutive "Best Smile" Competitions!

Coming soon to a parade near you!

Lucian froze mid-step.

His pupils dilated.

Then came his next idea:

"I need a rival."

Nedrick blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"A rival!" Lucian spun dramatically, arms held wide. "Every great hero has one! Someone to best in tournaments! To duel for glory! To glare at over long banquets while making vaguely threatening compliments!"

"You want... Prince Charming to be your rival?"

Lucian scoffed. "No way, that guy's clearly sponsored by three perfume factories and a skincare company you'd have to sell your soul to. But maybe I can find someone like him! A rival I can defeat! Someone just popular enough to make me look good while beating!"

They made for the nearest tavern—the Moist Goblet—which was as damp and sticky as its name implied. Inside, the air was filled with the aroma of roasted meat, ale, and long-forgotten ambition.

Lucian strode in confidently, accidentally knocking over a coat rack.

Nedrick followed with less confidence and slightly more sullenness.

They approached the barkeep; a stout woman with biceps the size of small barrels and a disapproving squint.

"Good day, madam!" Lucian declared, slapping a coin on the counter. "Are there any newcomers of royal bearing and rivalable potential?"

The barkeep pointed with her ladle. "Three princes in today. One over by the hearth, one in the back playing checkers with a goat, and one complaining about the menu over by the window."

Lucian beamed. "Perfect. Thank you, o sturdy goblet matron!"

"Don't call me that."

They approached the first prince, seated by the roaring hearth.

He was enormous.

He wore a sleeveless jerkin made of bear hide, his biceps gleamed with manly oil, and his chin looked like it could deflect arrows all on its own. Presently, he was doing push-ups while balancing a flagon of mead on his back.

Lucian stepped forward. "Ah, you must be—"

"Prince Macho is my name; I am the storm, I am the flame," Prince Macho bellowed without looking up. "I wrestled trolls in just one sock; then bathed beneath a lightning rock!"

Nedrick leaned in to murmur into Lucian's ear. "Does he... always speak in rhyme?"

"I once fought three bears with a tree trunk; then lifted a boulder just for fun-k!"

Lucian tugged Nedrick's sleeve. "Too cool," he whispered. "We'd be sidekicks in our own story."

They fled before Macho could break into a limerick about his triceps.

Next, they found a solemn, stiff-looking fellow seated at a table with a goat wearing spectacles.

"Greetings!" Lucian announced, approaching. "They call me Prince Knockout, because all interpretations of the word apply. And you?"

"Prince Stud," Stud answered, without inflection. "I enjoy statecraft. I enjoy spreadsheets. I find emotional vulnerability taxing."

The goat sneezed.

"I've memorized the trade routes of four dictatorships," Stud added. "And I'm currently composing a dissertation on the socio-economic implications of sheep tariffs."

Lucian blinked. Leaning over toward Nedrick, he whispered, "He's... kind of boring."

Nedrick nodded. "I feel like I aged a decade just listening to that sentence."

They backed away slowly, before Stud could show them his slide deck on alfalfa exports.

Finally, they crossed the tavern toward a small corner table by the window, where sat a slim, black-haired young man in a velvet midnight-blue cloak and holding a little silver amulet no bigger than his palm. He was gazing dramatically out the window while sipping something frothy from a wooden tankard. His glittering green eyes were like limpid pools of tragic ennui; until those eyes widened in abject horror, and he spat it all out in a rather impressive spray. 

"BLEH! Gods above!" the prince bellowed, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of a shirt probably worth more than the entire tavern.

The weary barkeep ambled over, now chewing on a toothpick. She placed her hands upon her hips. 

"Problem, Your Majesty?"

"This..." The prince gestured dramatically at the tankard, as if it had personally insulted him. "You call this diet? Because it certainly doesn't taste diet!"

The barkeep blinked. "No, sir. It's just... root beer."

"I specifically asked for diet root beer. As in—" he paused, searching for a metaphor that would convey the gravity of the offence, "—as in not this sweet swamp sludge!"

"We don't stock 'diet' anything, sire. This is a tavern, not some ketogenic vegan marketplace."

The prince narrowed his eyes. "Are you telling me there is not a single artisan in this village capable of extracting the sugar from this beverage?"

"Nope," said the bartender, popping the 'p'. "But we do have distilled, unflavoured gin, if you'd like something that tastes vaguely disappointing."

The prince considered this. "Does it pair well with indignation and crushed dreams?"

"Surprisingly well."

"I'll take it."

The bartender shuffled off without further ceremony, and the beautiful prince sighed, casting a wistful glance out the grimy window.

Lucian leaned in toward Nedrick. "Him. He's the one. He's dramatic. He's got great bone structure. He probably glows under moonlight. He's perfect."

Nedrick gave a long-suffering sigh. "You gonna challenge him to a duel, or something?"

Lucian cracked his knuckles. "Better."

He grinned.

"I'm going to steal his fanbase."