After a full day of avoiding their new gnomish fanbase—who had begun sculpting Nedrick-shaped devotional garden gnomes out of mashed potatoes—the group set out again, determined to complete another "good deed."

It began, as many misguided acts of public charity have, with a cursed gazebo and an underfunded drama guild.

The town of Thimblewick-by-the-Falls had not held a proper Enchanted Pageant of Noble Visages and Heroic Presentation in over seventy years—not due to lack of interest, but because their enchanted judges (three judgmental crystal balls and one sassily animated teapot) had gone into hibernation after the last scandal involving a wardrobe malfunction and a magical fog machine.

Upon arrival, Runklebean discovered the situation was perfect for a low-risk, high-theatricality Good Deed opportunity.

"We'll help them put the pageant on," he explained. "Provide security, magical consultation, and"—he paused, regretting the next words immediately—"participants."

Lucian, already flexing, looked delighted. "Are you saying I get to be judged for being magnificent?"

Alistair flipped his hair and looked smug. "Finally, a deed that understands my true worth."

Nedrick, who had been halfway through making a list of people he could convincingly bribe to take his place, groaned.

"Absolutely not," he said. "I am not made for pageantry. I wear the same tunic every day. One of my boots is made from repurposed fence."

But Runklebean's plan was already in motion. Magical permits were signed. The teapot was reawakened (and insulted someone immediately). The stage was cleared.

The boys were signed up as contestants.

The night before the event, Nedrick cornered Lucian in the shared tent.

"Help me figure out what to wear," Nedrick said. "You understand fashion. I understand practicality. Please?"

But Lucian was not listening.

He was staring across the camp at Alistair, who had just removed the tie from his ponytail and let his hair tumble down in what could only be described as a slow-motion cascade of rivalrous betrayal.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder and, in the exact tone that could even seduce furniture, said, "Letting it breathe. A mane must be free."

Lucian dropped his brush. "Oh no."

Nedrick squinted. "What."

"He's… he's letting his hair down."

"Yes," said Nedrick. "And?"

"It's voluminous, Nedrick."

Alistair, now combing his fingers casually through the silken cascade, smirked. "Good luck tomorrow. You'll need it."

Lucian clutched Nedrick's shoulders. "We are doomed. I am doomed. My hair does not flow, it bounces. That's peasantry-tier luster!"

"Get ahold of yourself," Nedrick hissed. "Just flex harder."

Lucian sniffled. "I can't flex charm. That's internal!"

Alistair discreetly took out his amulet—then stopped. His finger hovered under a small blade stabbing out the bottom of it, then he turned, cloak swirling around him.

"I feel fine right now; I'll check it later," he said coolly.

Runklebean blinked his eyes from under the biggest, bluest top hat he could find. "Why the modesty, Al?"

Alistair's face went blank for a moment. Then:

"You know why," he insisted softly, trying to speak subtly from the corner of his mouth. "From my thing."

"What thing?" Nedrick asked, suddenly appearing behind Alistair. 

"Ooh, nice amulet, man," Lucian said, popping up over Nedrick's shoulder. "Is it enchanted? Can you play games on it?"

Alistair immediately pocketed the amulet, sighing dramatically. "A game I can never hope to win, perhaps. Now buzz off!"

Runklebean hopped up onto a chair. "We start rehearsals in five minutes. Everyone ready? I'm making my outfit out of curtain remnants, some plants I found outside, and a dream I once had."

Everyone stared.

"What? Rule number one is to have fun!"

Lucian narrowed his eyes as Alistair slipped away into the restroom without another word. "Suspicious."

The next evening was an absolute circus of glitter, enchantments, and poorly rehearsed interpretive dance.

The crystal spheres bobbed overhead, judging silently. The teapot hissed when it disapproved, which was often.

Prince Lucian entered with fireworks erupting from behind him. His cape was encrusted with rhinestones, and he performed a dramatic pose called The Triple Falcon of Fate that nearly dislocated his shoulder.

The crowd roared.

Prince Alistair emerged to a choir of enchanted birds, dressed in shimmering indigo robes that flowed like liquid midnight. He bowed once and recited a poem so full of longing and mystery that three people fainted and one other proposed to him.

The crowd swooned.

Nedrick walked onstage in plain brown robes, his one fancy accessory being a polished pitchfork he'd borrowed from a friendly local farmer. He tried to bow and tripped. He then attempted a brief explanation of pig feed ratios, which no one understood but everyone found oddly calming.

The crowd applauded out of confusion and empathy.

Several more participants came out in various fashions after that. Runklebean walked out last, unassuming, in a robe made of patchwork colours and a crown of flowers. He offered no dance, no poem, no magical effects—just a simple bow and a slight smile.

"Thank you for having us!" he exclaimed. "You all look beautiful tonight!"

There was a pause.

Then a thunderous standing ovation.

Backstage, the results came in.

Winner: Runklebean.

Lucian gaped. "But—his outfit was made from lost and found!"

Alistair pouted. "He didn't even pose dramatically!"

Nedrick just looked relieved it was over.

Runklebean blinked. "Wow. I wasn't even trying!"

One of the judges, a crystal orb with a monocle, hovered forward.

"The winner," it declared, "was chosen based on authenticity, grace, and general emotional stability."

Lucian gasped. "Those aren't even hotness metrics!"

Alistair folded his arms. "What are your beauty standards?"

The teapot sniffled. "Warmth. Kindness. Honesty. And aesthetically pleasing eyebrows. Runklebean had three out of four. Now, as the winner, he may take one item from the costume department as a memento."

The rest of the boys slowly turned to Runklebean.

Runklebean stroked his aesthetically pleasing eyebrows and shrugged. "Sometimes, you just need good eyebrows to thrumple the victory!"