The four of them—now back to their totally human, appropriately aged, and fully exhausted selves—stumbled into the final chamber, tripping over each other like toddlers on stilts. 

There, atop a rotating pedestal of bones, broken mirrors, and one very ornate doily, sat Griselda, arms crossed, eyes glowing, and fingers twitching like a symphony of exasperation.

"Well?!" she barked. "You've completed my Cave of Reflection! Now TELL ME—what was the overarching theme?!"

The boys looked at each other.

Lucian stepped forward, confident. "Was it... identity?"

"Wrong!" Griselda snarled. A nearby mirror cracked in protest.

Nedrick raised a hand. "Personal growth?"

"Wrong again!"

Alistair dramatically pointed both index fingers in the air. "Was it insecurity, layered beneath illusion, steeped in metaphor?"

Griselda hurled a spoon at him. "No!"

Runklebean offered politely, "Poorly structured narrative motifs?"

Griselda screamed into a decorative cushion.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MORONS DIDN'T FIGURE IT OUT!"

The boys exchanged puzzled glances.

"Well," said Lucian, "since we're clearly going to be here a while, I vote we hit that snack bar over there."

"Seconded," Nedrick muttered, already halfway to the table of cookies and mandarin oranges.

"You—what—YOU CAN'T TAKE A BREAK!" Griselda shrieked, flinging both arms upward. "You're in a magical challenge chamber of eternal entrapment!"

"You didn't say there was a time limit," Alistair called, checking the nutrition facts on a box of biscuits. "Honestly, this whole trial needs workshopping."

Runklebean, sipping tea with a flower hanging out of the cup, added, "That's bad structuring."

Griselda let out a strangled sound. She reached up, grabbed her absurdly large, frilly pink bonnet—and tore it off.

Everyone froze.

Underneath: bald as a bean. Smooth as polished marble. Not a wisp of hair in sight.

There was a long pause.

Then she shouted, "The theme was HAIR, you absolute walking disappointments!"

The boys blinked incomprehensively.

Griselda paced, flailing her arms. "Furry animals? Hair care products? The beards? Runklebean turned into scissors and a comb! It was all there! It was OBVIOUS! But noooo, instead of figuring it out, you went and got existential and meaningful! Ugh!"

Lucian raised a hand. "Okay, but the cheese?"

"Distraction," Griselda growled. "To throw you off in case it was too easy."

"The tree?"

"Petty spite."

"Turning us back into children?"

"Also petty spite," she admitted, glaring at Runklebean. "You beat me in that pageant! With weeds in your hair! I had smoke effects and a sapphire corset! The winner got to take home one item from the costume department—that glorious jade wig should have been mine, and all you took was one stupid button!"

"Oh. Do you want the button?"

"NO! I want that wig! That shiny, lustrous, voluminous wig!"

Runklebean gave her a thoughtful look. "If all you wanted was hair, all you had to do was say so from the get-go! I could have given you mine to make a wig out of. I really don't mind; it grows back."

She scoffed. "As if I'd wear your hair! It's so plain and limp! No body at all!"

Runklebean hung his head slightly. "Fair."

At that moment, Alistair stepped forward with a proposition. "You wanted something beautiful. Something bold."

Griselda sniffled. "Yes. Is that so much to ask? I've tried potions. I've tried spells. I've tried moss glue. MOSS GLUE! But alas, every hair-related spell requires me to skin a sea otter, so naturally, I kept using tofu. And my vegan magic is UTTERLY INEFFECTIVE!"

"Then how did you manage to grow us beards?" Nedrick crinkled his nose. 

"Oh, all those spells were illusions crafted to allow for shared hallucinations." Griselda shook her fists in the air. "And I don't want to hallucinate gorgeous hair—I want REAL HAIR!"

Alistair took his sword, reached up... and cut off his ponytail right above the hair tie.

"Then take mine," he said, voice surprisingly gentle. "It's long. Luxurious. The strands glisten under torchlight. It smells like dreams and expensive shampoo."

Griselda gasped, dazzled. "You would give me... your hair?"

He nodded solemnly. "It's the least I can do. Also, you're right—Runkle's hair would make a terrible wig."

Runklebean raised his teacup in agreement.

Griselda burst into tears.

Twenty minutes and one wig-weaving ritual later, she emerged from a side room, sobbing with joy, and wearing a truly magnificent mane of silken midnight-black locks.

She pirouetted. "I FEEL TWENTY-SEVEN AGAIN!"

Lucian clapped. "You look amazing. It really brings out your smile."

Griselda hugged them all against their will and declared that they were now free to leave the cave, that she'd lowered all the curses, and that she would name the wig "Alexandria" in honour of her new lease on life.

***

The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the trees as the princes and Runklebean all headed back to camp. 

Alistair ran his fingers through his now-short, still-stylish waves of hair. "At least we're back to normal."

Lucian grinned. "Speak for yourself. I think I've levelled up in Handsome."

Nedrick sighed. "I hate traveling with royalty."

Runklebean pointed up ahead where the path diverged. "I saw a lot of firewood down that way this morning when we passed by. Help me gather some?"

"More firewood?" Nedrick groaned.

Runklebean nodded enthusiastically. "If you help me gather a few more things along the way, I'll teach you how to make a pinecone soufflé!"

"...I do love a good soufflé," Nedrick pondered. Finally, he shrugged. "Oh, why not. We'll meet you guys back at the camp."

"Have fun!" Lucian shouted after them with a hand cupped around his mouth. 

"Ta-ta!" Alistair called with a wave. 

Nedrick and Runklebean vanished into the shrubbery, leaving Lucian and Alistair alone with each other. It was perfectly silent for a while, with Lucian falling slightly behind as he fell deep into thought. 

Alistair kicked a pebble ahead of him. As he watched it skip over roots and land in the underbrush, Lucian quickly closed the distance, bounding over to give him a nudge.

"So, nice haircut," he said, his voice low but casual.

Alistair smirked. "Nice tail."

Lucian flushed, recalling his prior dog transformation. "Shut up."

They both chuckled—Lucian awkwardly, Alistair smugly. It was progress.

"I mean," Alistair said, scratching the back of his neck, "thanks for having my back."

"You dare doubt me? Get real! We vowed to be rivals forever, remember?" Lucian grinned, epically punching the air. "That means no backing out for anything. Even when walking blindly into obvious traps set by vegan witches."

"Well, if it was so obvious, then you could have piped up a little sooner!"

They grinned at each other, insults melting into smiles.

"At least now I know why you're always checking nutrition facts and insisting on diet everything," Lucian said after a pause, more sincerely this time. "And just for the record; you were a cute kid."

Alistair blinked, then looked away self-consciously. "You say that, when you probably used your dimples to get everything you wanted."

"High praise," Lucian muttered, but his ears turned faintly pink. "I did, in fact. Doesn't work as much now as it used to, I'll admit..."

Slowing in his pace, Alistair glanced sidelong at his rival.

"So, I guess I'm a little confused," he said quietly.

Lucian slowed down as well. Raising a brow, he wordlessly prompted him to go on. 

"See, I've had a rival once before, and it was nothing like this." Alistair motioned his hand between himself and Lucian. "What I don't understand is why you're so nice to me all the time."

Blinking away his questions, Lucian gave him a look of confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Alistair shrugged, looking a little lost on how to rephrase it. He awkwardly scuffed his boot in the dirt. "I just mean... well, that you're always encouraging me, and you communicate without fear of judgement, and you respect my interests. You even gave me constructive feedback when we were training the other day." He continued with an almost dark look about him. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm not sure you know what a real rivalry is." 

"...I'll admit, I've never had a rivalry before," Lucian began. "It's probably a good thing that we're actually talking about this. In my head, before I met you, I thought I had it all figured out. I knew I wanted good-natured competition, and someone to engage in playful banter with, you know? Constantly try to outdo each other in games or heroic feats, with each victory met with laughter and a vow to do better next time. But now that it's real, and happening, I'm learning that even though we tease and challenge one another, I want our bond to be unshakable. I want our rivalry to push each other to grow stronger and braver." Lucian gave him a princely, dimpled grin. "That sound all right to you?"

But conversely, Alistair only looked even more perplexed. "It... sounds too good to be real, Lucian. With my old rival, it was all about constant criticism, belittling, control, manipulation, monitoring each other's actions, isolating each other from others, guilt-tripping, gaslighting, blame-shifting, and making each other feel worthless. You understand?"

It was in that moment that they finally arrived at the camp, where Nedrick and Runklebean had inexplicably beaten them with a surprise shortcut. But Lucian wasn't focused on that right now. He stopped walking, glaring now. 

"Who the hell did all of that to you?"

Alistair shrank in on himself slightly, not expecting such a serious reaction. "Huh?"

"That's not a friendly rivalry, Al. That's straight-up abuse."

Alistair paled, looking away. He said nothing. 

"In my opinion, a rivalry should be built on mutual respect," said Lucian, getting slightly worked up, now. "Who was your old rival?" 

Alistair waved a hand by his head. "Just forget about it, okay? Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this up in the first place."

"No, I'm glad you did. You're not in contact anymore, I hope? Unless you are, in which case, you need to tell me where they are so I can destroy them for thinking they can—"

Before Lucian could say anything further, Runklebean trotted over carrying a bundle of pine needles, face flushed from exertion and heat.

"Hey, if you would like it, I know how to make soap out of pine needles and charcoal!" Runklebean said brightly. "That way you can all take a dip in the river and wash out any fleas you might have gotten from the animal transformations, and—"

"I don't have fleas!" Lucian exclaimed, stiffening.

"Are you certain?" said Runklebean, eyes sparkling. "Sometimes, fleas can cause allergic reactions, or worse—"

"I DON'T HAVE FLEAS!"

Nedrick groaned as he joined the group. "Can we all agree I had it the worst when I turned into a bar of soap?"

"Maybe... but don't lie, Ned," Lucian said with a grin, rolling his shoulders back as he tried to loosen up. "You loved turning into a cow."

"I hated being a cow!"

"You bonded with your hairy cow body!" Lucian declared, suddenly lunging at him. "Come back, I wanna see you cry beefy tears of joy!"

Nedrick yelped and sprinted off, Lucian laughing as he chased him through the underbrush, threatening to crown him "Cow Lord of the West."

The clearing settled again, laughter fading into the rustling trees. Runklebean pocketed his bouquet of pine needles, watching the two cousins disappear.

"You still haven't told them," he said quietly. "Will you?"

Alistair's smile faded, his gaze lingering on where Lucian had vanished between the trees.

"Eventually," he said softly. "But not today. I... need to think."

Runklebean nodded, not pressing further. Alistair exhaled and looked up at the sky, where the clouds drifted lazily above them.