The atmosphere in The Moist Goblet was thick with scented candle wax, heavy intrigue, and at least three competing hair products.

The Prince turned toward the approaching duo with a slow, practiced smile that suggested he'd spent many afternoons rehearsing it in reflective sword blades.

"Prince Enchanting," he said, voice smooth as gooseberry silk. "Charmed, I'm sure. I sensed your approach in the scent of despair on the wind."

Lucian stepped forward, chest puffed out like a noble peacock in the middle of mating season. "Prince Lucian Lancaster Leonidas the First—though I prefer 'Prince Knockout' or 'Lucian the Daring; Future King of a Kingdom That Will Definitely Probably Exist. In the future." He gestured toward Nedrick. "This is my—uh, my Viscount of Logistics and Pig-Keeping; Nedrick, the Mildly Adequate."

Nedrick gave a half-hearted wave. "Hello. Yes. I have regrets."

Enchanting smirked. "And what brings you to my lonely corner of the Moist Goblet?"

Lucian leaned casually on the tabletop and immediately knocked over a scented candle. He fumbled to set it back upright, luckily before anything could catch fire, and quickly resumed his prior pose. "Fate. Destiny. Perhaps a poorly labeled street sign or two. You have just been met with daring rogues who seek adventure. Glory."

Enchanting tilted his head with amusement. "Do you always monologue in the third person?"

"Only when I'm being impressive."

"And how often is that?"

Lucian grinned. "Oh, roughly... constantly."

There was a pause, then the two princes locked eyes with the mutual recognition of natural-born rivals. Sparks practically sizzled in the air. If someone had handed them swords, they might've dramatically clanged them together just to declare it to the world. Or, at least to everyone in the tavern before getting kicked out.

"So, what's your actual name?" Nedrick asked, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife through pretentious fondue.

"Prince Alistair Ambrosius Valerian the Third," Enchanting replied with a languid gesture, like the syllables had taken dance lessons. "Though among the ladies, I'm sometimes known as 'The Velvet Enigma.'"

Nedrick rolled his eyes so hard it nearly qualified as a full-body workout.

"And which kingdom are you from?" Lucian asked, clearly dazzled.

Alistair waved vaguely westward, or perhaps upward—it was hard to tell. "A place of opulence. Of mystery. You wouldn't have heard of it."

"Oh-ho!" Lucian said, leaning in closer. "Is it so extravagant that it's too fabulous for mortal maps?"

Alistair nodded solemnly, resting his alabaster face in one slender hand. "Our maps are made of silk and sung into existence by harp-playing peacocks."

Nedrick mouthed "What?" at no one in particular.

"I bet you're like... seventeen," Lucian said.

"Nineteen years young," Alistair replied, flipping his ink-coloured ponytail with a breeze that came from nowhere.

Lucian gasped. "We're the same age! It's fate. Rivals born under the same moon!"

Alistair gave a graceful shrug. "Possibly. Or one of us is simply meant to lose spectacularly."

Lucian flexed, not subtly. This was a deliberate flex; the sort that triggered a passing bard to drop his lute out of intimidation.

"Behold these biceps," Lucian declared, giving them a small bounce. "Tempered in royal boot camp. Forged in the fires of daily push-ups."

He flashed what he clearly believed was a devastating smile, which revealed exactly two dimples and those signature white teeth. "Princesses love this smile. I once got a lady-in-waiting to faint just by winking during supper once."

Alistair raised a thin, elegant eyebrow. "How quaint."

He stood, allowing his cloak to flutter dramatically behind him, though there was no wind.

"Observe," he intoned, sliding into a series of effortless, overly choreographed poses: a smolder, a romantic side-glance with a rose held aloft, a back-turned hair toss that could kill a lesser mortal with charm.

"I once convinced a Duchess to dedicate a ballet to my jawline," Alistair said lightly. "I've broken more curses than most have broken hearts—and I've done both with style."

Lucian looked like he was watching a unicorn juggle flaming marshmallows. "You're amazing."

"I know."

"I must defeat you."

"I assumed."

"I will!"

Alistair tapped his fingers together, pleased. "You may try."

Nedrick looked between them with a deepening frown. "Is this the part where you duel with swords, or increasingly unhinged pickup lines?"

"Not yet," Lucian said.

"First," Alistair continued, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "you must find a worthy quest. Something noble. Romantic. With just the right amount of endangerment. As luck would have it," he added with a small smirk, "I recently caught wind of a situation most intriguing. A dragon. A tower. A prisoner of unknown description and inconvenient altitude. Due west, deep in the Cursed Pines."

Lucian's pupils morphed into stars. "Yes. YES. That's it! We race to the tower. First one there wins the glory, the fanbase, and possibly a really attractive hostage and marry into a perfect kingdom!"

They shook hands—firmly, and with more eye contact than a taxidermied owl being interrogated by other, much more alive owls. So... just a tad more eye-contact than the norm.

"Prepare yourself, Prince Alistair," Lucian said with a grin. "This rivalry is officially ON."

"Indeed," Alistair replied, already adjusting his cape into a more majestic drape. "May the most charming prince win."

In the background, Nedrick let his forehead thunk gently against the wall. "I feel like I'm trapped in a toothpaste ad with delusions of grandeur. Man... I should have stayed home with the pigs."