The first room was chaos.

Nedrick, transformed into a confused hairy cow, was pushing a pot across the floor with his head.

Sitting in that pot was Runklebean, stoic as ever, having been transformed into a small, ornamental tree with impressive leaf density.

Perched in one of Runklebean's branches was Alistair, a tiny chipmunk with eyeliner-level stripe detailing, who sighed dramatically. "This cave has no respect. How dare it classify my spirit animal under the category of 'rodent'? I always thought of myself as more like a panther, or a tiger!"

"Personally, I think chipmunk suits you," Runklebean said, branches ruffling. "Your two front teeth on top have always been slightly longer than the rest; perfect for removing seeds from pods so you can store food for the winter!"

Alistair crossed his furry little arms. "First I'm a rodent, and now apparently I have teeth like one! I might as well have been transformed into a beaver!"

Lucian—now a corgi with overly muscular calves—was energetically running circles around the other three, trying to keep his princely dignity while his tail wagged against his will. "At least you don't have fleas!"

"What are you talking about? Chipmunks get fleas, too!" Alistair started scratching irritably behind his ear. "Thanks a lot! Now I'm itchy!"

"You're a cute little dog, Lucian," Nedrick huffed. "You win in this room."

"I am not my breed, Nedrick."

Somehow, they made it to the next doorway, and passed through as pink smoke wafted all around them, blindingly so until it dramatically cleared away. They found themselves in yet another reflective-walled cavern, almost identical to the last.

Lucian blinked. "Why do I smell argan oil and shame?"

Then he looked down.

He was a bottle of conditioner. A very fancy one. With gold foiling.

Alistair was a jar of hair pomade labeled "For Mystery & Added Volume." His lid was off slightly. "Agh! Why am I open?!"

Nedrick, who had become an aggressively no-frills bar of soap, groaned. "I have questions and none of them deserve answers."

On the ground beside them, someone had placed an unattended wheel of cheese.

It wobbled ominously.

Runklebean's voice echoed in their heads, exhausted and dairy-scented.

"Don't drop me, please! I'm aged twelve hundred years!"

They made their way—rolling, scooting, and bouncing—across the floor. Turns out, briefly turning into an inanimate, faceless, limbless object was kinda horrifying.

Regardless, they journeyed forth into yet another room deep within the cave. This time, they were sprayed with a fine, blue mist. Initially, they presumed they had been turned back to normal. They were human, they had hands, and everything felt right again! 

Of course, there was a difference, and Lucian was first to notice.

"Hark!" he declared, immediately breaking into a heroic pose. "My face! It bristles with power!"

Indeed, a thick beard had manifested within the span of two seconds—an unruly, majestic mane of ringlets and tight curls, like a flock of dark brown sheep had migrated onto his chin. 

Beside him, Alistair too had a beard; a shimmering waterfall of silken black waves. Somehow it sparkled in the moonlight. Indoors. And in the middle of the day, at that.

"This is incredible," Alistair beamed. "I haven't even used product yet. Do you think I can braid in tiny bells? Is that a thing?"

"It looks like it's trying to escape your face," Nedrick sassed, rubbing his own jaw. "I feel scratchy. Is that normal?"

Nedrick's beard looked like it had lost a fight with a weed whacker. Sparse, patchy, and inexplicably orange in parts. He checked his reflection in one of the cave's crystals.

"Aw, c'mon," he sighed. "Why do I look like a disgruntled hobo?"

"No, no. You've got... uh, comeliness?" Alistair tried diplomatically.

"Nah, man. You look like your chin is going through a rough breakup," Lucian told Nedrick.

But before the bickering escalated into a full-blown duel, Runklebean's muffled voice called out from somewhere far away.

"I disagree, Ned!" the seemingly invisible fellow offered. "It's not patchy—it's spontaneous. Your follicles are like free-spirited artists who refuse to conform to traditional beard norms. I like it."

They looked all around themselves, trying to figure out where Runklebean's voice was coming from, until they spotted a small, whittled-down pencil wrapped in mulberry-coloured fabric, hopping on the floor like a panicked grasshopper.

There was a long pause.

"Okay," Alistair sighed, thoughtfully stroking his beard, "that witch really doesn't seem to like you."

"Don't I know it," mumbled Runklebean, ceasing in his hopping. "Now I'm a sad little pencil."

"Okay, but why a pencil? She wants us to pick up on some theme tying all these cave-rooms together, but what do beards and pencils have to do with coming in fourth place for a pageant?" Nedrick fumed, struggling to find even an ounce of logic in all of this. "I got something that at least resembles a beard, Lucian got the manliest beard I've ever seen, and Alistair got a beard that practically writes poetry about itself. Why are you always turning into something radically different from the rest of us?"

Lucian gingerly picked up Runklebean. "At least you're useful. Not very sharp, though, gotta say—"

"SHARPEN ME AND I SWEAR I WILL REPLACE ALL YOUR PENS WITH SLIGHTLY WORSE PENS. FOREVER."

"Okay man, sheesh, don't get your shavings in a twist."

They collectively agreed to move on to the next cavern. They came to the next doorway, and—

There was a pop of confetti.

Suddenly, they were children. Tiny, adorable, and deeply confused; except for Runklebean, that is. He was now a skinny pair of hair-trimming scissors.

Nedrick, now a sullen six-year-old with overalls and the energy of someone who had recently lost a shoe in a cow field, muttered, "This is worse than being a cow."

Lucian looked down at his skinny nine-year-old stick-arms and gasped. "No! My sweet pecks! My awesome gains—gone! I've been reduced to a string-bean!"

"You remind me of a very graceful stick insect," Runklebean said, still within Lucian's grip. "Elegant. Efficient. Unexpectedly confident."

Lucian gave the pair of scissors a flat stare. "Gee, thanks."

"If you turned sideways in a windstorm, you'd just whistle. It's inspiring."

"...All right, that's enough."

Off to the side, Alistair didn't speak.

He stood in the corner, a chubby, round-cheeked version of himself with a mop of black hair. Not only had his prior poise completely vanished, but his beloved robes of crushed blue velvet and gold-threaded brocade had been replaced with the simple, itchy garb of a peasant. Alistair clutched at the rough fabric over his stomach, avoiding eye-contact with every reflective surface.

Lucian tilted his head. "Alistair?"

"...You don't have to say anything," Alistair murmured gently. 

Lucian stared at him. "Are you kidding me? I don't care if you used to be fat—"

"Poor!" Alistair wailed suddenly. "Before the silks, and the carnelian bath-oils, and my thousand thread-count sheets, I lived on the poorest dirt-path in the Kingdom of Zhenlia!"

Nedrick stifled a laugh. "You've faced dragons without flinching, and yet it's peasant clothes that undoes you?"

"It's not just the clothes!" Alistair cried, turning away, voice trembling. "Look at you two! You're still you, just bite-sized. But me?" He grabbed harrowingly at his belly. "I look like a big fat disgrace!" 

"No, you look like a kid. We all do," said Lucian, before glancing at the pair of scissors in his grip. "Except Runk, but you know, he's a special case."

Alistair's shoulders were shaking now, arms crossed. "Don't look at me. Can we just move on to the next room, already?"

Lucian blinked, then stepped closer. "I really don't see any problem, though."

"Then you don't seem to get it," Alistair whispered. "I have no royal blood. I wasn't born a prince. My mother is a relentless gold-digger. After my father died, she managed to marry the king, and suddenly I was draped in jewels and introduced into the court like I hadn't spent my childhood chasing out rats and eating soup with a wooden spoon." Alistair's shoulders hunched like a child expecting a scolding. "I thought if you knew, you wouldn't think I was a worthy rival."

Alistair looked down at his plump little hands, now calloused again, as if the cave had remembered everything he tried to forget. 

Lucian was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped forward, and lowered Alistair's hands with one of his. He didn't look angry, or disgusted. Just thoughtful. 

"Alistair," he said softly, "you think I care that you used to be poor?"

"You might."

"Well that doesn't make sense, since my mother was a pig-farmer."

Alistair looked at him now, confused. He glanced past him at Nedrick. "Wait, but he's—"

"Also a pig-farmer. Yeah," confirmed Lucian. "Nedrick and I are cousins."

Alistair blinked, thoroughly surprised. "...You are?"

Lucian nodded. "Of course we are! I just said so, didn't I?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes. "...You're not just making fun of me by mocking my intelligence?"

"Come on, it's not that hard to believe!"

From slightly off to the side, Nedrick tapped his chin with a fingertip. "Huh, I guess we forgot to mention that detail."

"I thought Lucian was paying you to follow him around and carry his things," Alistair said to Nedrick. "This completely changes the way I've been viewing your dynamic. But what does this have to do with anything?"

"I'm saying," Lucian continued, "that you and I are both a little unconventional, Alistair. You're not a prince because of your blood. You became a prince the day you decided to carry yourself like one."

Alistair blinked, touched. 

"Also, you know," Lucian went on with a smile, "I bet you've got tons of stories about your past. I'd love to hear them, and tell you some of mine!"

And just like that, Alistair's mood immediately soured again. 

"Talk about our pasts? But we're supposed to be rivals." Alistair frowned, confused. "Why would I just freely give you potential ammo?"

"It isn't ammo if it's just two friends getting to know each other!" Runklebean piped up cheerily. "You should tell him your name. That's usually where I start."

Lucian and Nedrick were prepared to ignore the suggestion as just another weird, nonsensical comment on Runklebean's part. But then the almost livid look that Alistair shot the poor pair of scissors in Lucian's hand gave them pause.

"No! Runkle, why?" Alistair looked away with a harrumph. "You shouldn't have said that!" 

"Huh? Your name?" Nedrick questioned. "What's he on about?"

"I had to change it when I left home," Alistair grumbled. 

"Why?" Lucian leaned in with a teasing grin. "Is it nerdy? Long? Hard to pronounce?"

"Is it something cliché like 'Eugene' or 'Herbert'?" Nedrick guessed with a laugh.

"Before I left to find Runklebean, I became a wanted criminal," Alistair admitted instead. "The king—my stepfather—wants me dead now, and if you turn me in, it's over for me!"

Silence. Truthfully, that was the last thing on the combined list of things Lucian and Nedrick expected Alistair to say.

"Oh-okay... uh..." Nedrick twiddled his thumbs. "What did you do, out of curiosity?"

"...Did you kill somebody?" Lucian whispered, stepping even closer.

"No! It would take way too long to explain!" Alistair took several steps away. "So quit asking. I can't risk you turning me in."

"Okay, well, quit saying we're gonna turn you in, because we're not going to," Lucian told him, serious now. "How are we gonna be rivals if you're on the chopping block, anyway?"

"No one from your family is going to find you, Al. If you trust me," said Runklebean, "and I trust Lucian and Nedrick, then you can trust them, too. That's logic."

Alistair huffed, annoyed with his apparently airtight reasoning. "...It's a dumb name, anyway."

"I like it better," Runklebean whispered rather loudly to Lucian.

"I don't care if you prefer it," Alistair snapped icily.

"It's cuter than 'Alistair' at least," the pair of scissors defended lightly.

"It's cute?!" Alistair said, aghast. 

"Yes! Like the name of someone who surprises you in the best way!"

Then Lucian asked, quietly, "What is your real name?"

Alistair hesitated. Debated. Everyone waited, not all-too sure what to expect. 

Then, Alistair answered with a wince: 

"...Alan."

"Alan?" Lucian blinked.

Alistair turned red. "Yes. Alan."

Nedrick looked between them. "Just... Alan?"

Lucian shrugged, as though expecting a better punch-line. "That's it?"

"See? It's boring! No flair!" Alistair told Runklebean. "It's a math teacher's name!"

Lucian was frozen. Then, softly: "...You do kind of look like an Alan."

Alistair groaned into his hands.

"Relax, we won't call you that in public," said Nedrick. "Wouldn't want someone to overhear, only to recognize you and turn you in."

"And you won't turn me in?" Alistair muttered through his hands. 

"No!" Lucian exclaimed. 

"Even though the reward money is enough to end world hunger and still have enough left to buy everyone dessert?"

"We don't want to know how much the reward money is!" Lucian stepped forward. "All I want to know is one thing: do you still want to be rivals, or is this not gonna work?"

Alistair peeked at him between his fingers, hopeful. "...I want it to work."

Lucian smiled. "Good. I do, too." He lightly punched Alistair's arm. "And for the record, whatever your backstory is, I bet mine is more tragic."

Lowering his hands, Alistair raised a brow and smiled. It was small and a little crooked, but it was a real one that made him seem a bit more like himself. "Oh, really?"

Lucian pointed at the next doorway. "Race me for it. If you win, I tell you mine."

"You're ridiculous."

"Pot. Kettle."

Alistair's eyes lit up. Then he cleared his throat, and straightened his ragged collar. "Deal."

They took off, giggling like children running with scissors (which, at that moment, they were) while Nedrick trudged behind like a tired little potato with arms.