The tower was tall, foreboding, and tastefully overgrown with vines that looked like they'd once had ambitions of becoming evil-looking, but got distracted halfway through and decided to grow a scattering of little pink flowers instead.

High above, silhouetted against the dwindling sunlight, a fair maiden leaned out of a crumbling window and waved enthusiastically.

"Hellooooooo!" she called. "Over here! You're doing great! Very dramatic running, by the way!"

Lucian froze, panting. "She's waving!"

Alistair struck a pose mid-sprint. "That's because she saw me."

"She waved at me."

"She was waving you away like a bad fart; her greetings were for me."

"You wish! I think she waved even harder when she saw my teeth."

"Oh please, your teeth look like they're auditioning for an oat commercial."

Nedrick stepped between them. "Focus! Tower? Prisoner? Giant creature behind us that's been coughing smoke for five minutes?"

The princes turned around just in time to notice the dragon.

It had snuck up, somehow, which is very difficult for a thirty-foot, winged lizard made of sulphur and nightmares to do. Yet there it stood, looking somewhere between mildly annoyed and gently bored. It was the colour of overcast days and expensive obsidian countertops, with a single golden tooth and the world-weary eyes of a creature who'd guarded one too many towers for far too many melodramatic royals.

"Okay," Nedrick said flatly, "anyone here speak 'dragon'? No? Great. Time to die."

But Lucian stepped forward, puffed up with princely confidence and total linguistic ignorance. "Fear not, noble beast!" he said. "I am a Prince, born of glorious purpose! I demand you step aside!"

The dragon narrowed its eyes.

Alistair followed, tossing his ponytail casually. "Apologies for my rival's tone. He was raised by sheep. I, however, come bearing wit, style, charm, and gorgeous eyes—prepare to meet your maker."

The dragon blinked.

Then, very slowly... it exhaled.

Rest assured, the breath was not fire; but rather a long, exasperated sigh that made the grass ripple.

"...Are you two done?" the dragon said, its voice gravelly and deeply unimpressed.

Nedrick gawked. "Wait, you talk?"

The dragon nodded, vaguely gesturing to a sign behind it that read:

PLEASE DO NOT SLAY. I AM UNIONIZED.

"Listen," the dragon said. "I'm just here to make sure the right people get in the tower. I'm not interested in your hair flips or flex-offs."

"We weren't flexing," Lucian muttered.

"You absolutely were."

Alistair folded his arms. "So, if we don't fight you..."

"Then I won't eat you," the dragon said. "Which, by the way, I legally can't do before sunset, anyway. Paperwork."

The three of them bowed quickly, muttered their thanks, and hurried on past the dragon, who took out a tiny book titled How to Guard Things and Set Boundaries: A Dragon's Guide to Workplace Wellness.

They reached the tower's base, breathless. The figure above was still waving.

"She has excellent cheer form," Lucian noted.

"She's clearly intelligent and emotionally available," Alistair said. "She didn't even flinch at your shouting."

Suddenly, Alistair pulled something previously hidden within a compartment in his boot.

CLINK.

He lassoed a grappling hook in the air before letting it soar. It hooked itself onto the window sill above and locked into place with a smug little kachunk.

Alistair grinned wickedly. "So long, slowpokes."

He began to climb, swaying elegantly, as if the laws of physics were too enamoured with him to resist.

Lucian looked at Nedrick and pointed furiously at the door. "We pick the lock. NOW."

Lucian pulled out a hairpin (which he claimed was only for emergencies precisely like this one), and in one surprisingly efficient jiggle—click—the door creaked open.

They bolted up the stairs, a spiralling nightmare of uneven steps, aggressive dust, and one suspiciously sticky banister. As they reached the top—

CRASH.

Alistair swung in through the window, landing in a perfect heroic pose.

SLAM.

The door burst open, and Lucian and Nedrick tumbled into the room with theatrical flair and matching sweat stains.

And there she was.

The princess, clad in a perfectly ordinary tunic and breeches, perched on a beanbag chair with a half-eaten sandwich and a game board spread out in front of her. Her hair was buzzed short under the crooked tiara she wore, her boots were muddy, and her expression said: This is not the first time I've had to deal with this nonsense.

"Hi," she said, casually. "Nice entrance. Points for commitment."

Nedrick blinked. "You're not... wearing a pretty dress?"

Lucian blinked harder. "You're not... weeping?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I just enjoy a little altitude. Good air up high. You dig?"

Nedrick groaned. "Oh, boy..."

The princess stood, brushing crumbs off her tunic before she regarded Alistair testily. "You showed up faster than I expected, at least. So I'll give you credit where it's due."

Alistair's smugness didn't leave his face. "Joy. Now get on with it."

Nedrick and Lucian exchanged brief glances of mild confusion. 

She reached under her beanbag and pulled out a faintly glowing scroll.

She held it up. "Guess what, boys? This ain't no rescue."