The hearthfire crackled in the lobby of the Gilded Drake Inn, casting warm shadows over oak-paneled walls and polished dragon bone beams. The innkeeper, a stout dwarf with more piercings than teeth, slid two copper keys across the counter.

"Two rooms, bottom floor, as you requested," she said, barely glancing up. "Breakfast at dawn, or whenever the chef sobers up, your worshipfulness."

"Much appreciated," Nedrick said, pocketing the certificate that the gnomes had given him which (incorrectly) declared he was a divine being. Like Runklebean had said, it sure helped get them free stuff when the situation called for it. Such as this one, as far as three-out-of-four of them were concerned. 

Lucian thanked the innkeeper, and then turned immediately toward Alistair, brows furrowed like he was preparing for battle. "You sure you're feeling all right?"

Alistair exhaled slowly through his nose.

"For the third time in the last hour—yes. I've administered my potions. I ate. My amulet has been reading 'normal range' since we left the camp. I'm fine."

"Fine for now," Nedrick said, arms folded and voice sharp. "But it came out of nowhere, Al. You just dropped. One minute you were lifting that absurd weight, the next—"

"I remember," Alistair cut in, voice flat.

He didn't mean to snap. But the constant barrage of concern, the darting eyes, the too-careful silences—he felt like a broken sword under a blacksmith's glare, being judged and coddled.

Runklebean, ever the peacemaker, stepped forward. "We just want to be close in case something happens again."

Alistair avoided his stare. "I know. But I don't need a nursemaid—or three."

He took one of the keys off the counter and slipped it into his pocket.

"I'm taking that one," he said. "The rest of you can all bunk together."

Lucian blinked. "Wait, you're not rooming with one of us?"

"Why would I?" Alistair turned toward the hall, his voice trailing behind him like a frayed cloak. "I need a bath, and a break from being asked if I'm breathing every fifteen minutes."

With that, Alistair departed into his private room, locking the door behind him. The room was cozy in a way that only expensive inns could manage: stone hearth, featherbed, a small window overlooking Luneveil's sunlit rooftops, and a luxury bathroom. Alistair unbuckled his fanny pack and set it gently by the bed.

He removed the amulet from his neck, still glowing faintly blue, and placed it on the nightstand. Setting down the rest of his gear next to the bed, Alistair took out a heavy grimoire from his bag, in which he logged the morning's readings with a feathered quill.

When he finished, he sighed, sinking into a plush chair beside the window.

He knew his friends meant well. He wanted them to care. But he didn't want to be defined by his condition—especially not now, not when he'd fought so hard to live a full life with it.

Alistair pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Tomorrow, he'd explain it better. Talk to them. Let them fuss a little, maybe. But right now, he just wanted silence.

Meanwhile, the other three sat at the bar, not really saying much.

Lucian sipped moodily at his tankard. "I shouldn't have pushed him so hard yesterday."

"He didn't say anything," Nedrick replied. "But he's not made of paper. He made a mistake. We all have."

"I still think one of us should've roomed with him," Runklebean worried. "Even just outside his door."

Nedrick scoffed. "And what? Stare at him while he sleeps? He'd throttle us by morning."

"Still might," Lucian added, managing a small smile. "At least his amulet will wake him up if there's a problem while he's sleeping."

"Explains the weird chiming noise we all heard in his tent that one night," said Nedrick thoughtfully.

Runklebean sighed miserably. "I don't know, fellas. I don't like that he's upset with us. I've known Alan since he was a little baby, and he's always expected a lot out of people, just like his mum, but he's also expected a lot out of himself, as well. Just like his dad."

Nedrick raised a brow. "Wait, you've known him that long?"

Runklebean nodded. "I was best friends with his dad, Doug, ever since he was a teenager. He was diabetic, as well. We used to go everywhere together. But then he met a woman, and decided to settle down with her. Doug ran the best bakery in the entire continent, but it wasn't very successful. I used to visit, and I'd see Alan. I just wish I'd been around when Doug passed."

"I didn't know any of that," Lucian said quietly. "Sometimes I forget that you're so old."

"It's okay," said Runklebean. "So do I."

That was when the front doors of the Gilded Drake burst open with a gust of wind. A courier stumbled in, armour half-buttoned, his tabard stained with dust and soot. 

All heads turned.

"Adventurers?" the courier barked. "Heroes? Hello? Is there anyone of the sort within these premises?"

All heads turned away.

"Now isn't a good time for another quest," Lucian whispered so that the courier couldn't hear. "Al went through a lot, yesterday."

"Contrariwise, I think he'd appreciate something normal," Runklebean countered pleasantly. "All of us might, in fact. We should offer our services."

"…Al has been managing it just fine for five years," Nedrick reasoned. 

"Are we making a big deal out of nothing?" Lucian worried. 

"I think we should let Al set the pace going forward," Runklebean suggested. "We won't have to worry about anything bad if we all take care of each other and listen to one another. You know?"

Lucian smirked, pulled on his cloak, and downed the last sip of his tankard.

"Then it's time to scrumble forth, men!"

Runklebean beamed, delighted that Lucian had used one of his Runkle-isms. He threw a fist in the air. "Headlong we scrumble!"

The mission was simple, which of course meant it would be anything but.

"Retrieve the Medallion of Soggoth from the Cave of Moderate Peril," Lucian read aloud from the courier's quest parchment as they rode the steeds they'd rented for the day into the foothills of Mount Regret. "How bad could moderate peril be?"

"Don't you dare jinx it," muttered Nedrick, whose mount—a horse named Clancy—snorted with world-weary skepticism. "Moderate peril usually means at least two exploding traps, emotional manipulation, and one beast that smells like regret and unwashed hair."

"Sounds like my ex," Alistair said, patting his unicorn named Sparkleforce. 

Runklebean, atop a donkey, waved his arms in delight. "Onward to medallification! We shall befriend the peril and scone with destiny!"

"Do you even hear yourself?" Lucian asked with mild amusement.

They dismounted at the cave entrance, which smelled faintly of mildew and passive-aggressive warnings. A carved stone above the archway read "ABANDON TIMIDITY, ALL YE WHO ENTER." Beneath that, someone had graffitied, "But maybe don't abandon your snacks."

Inside, it was dark—mysteriously, ominously dark. The kind of darkness that implied a sense of narrative pacing.

"All right," said Lucian with a grin. "Team Formation Beta Six."

"Which one was that again?" asked Runklebean, itching his chin through his veil.

"That's the one where you stop improvising and don't try to juggle anything that glows or hisses," Nedrick muttered. "That's happened three times, Runklebean. Three."

"Only one explosion was my fault!"

"…They were all your fault."

Their first challenge was to cross a chasm bridged by only three hanging ropes—one solid, one enchanted to vanish when touched, and one that smelled like cheese.

Alistair took charge here. "This is about choreography. Watch and learn."

He executed a running leap, light-footed as a butterfly with ballet training, swung off the solid rope, doing a mid-air twist, and landing in a twinkling flourish. "Voila!"

Lucian clapped for him. "Show-off."

"You love it."

Nedrick grabbed onto the solid rope once it swung back, and tightened it around his waist. "Pig farm rule number twelve: never trust a rope that smells." He swung across using a pulley technique he learned from hoisting grain.

Runklebean stared at the three ropes contemplatively.

"Okay, but what if I become the rope?"

Lucian grabbed him. "No. You follow me. We're going across the old-fashioned way."

He picked Runklebean up like an unruly sack of wet fireworks and carried him across the chasm with effortless grace.

Challenge two was an enchanted puzzle wall that asked riddles about algebra, ethics, and the proper etiquette for addressing a ghost at a wedding.

"Finally," said Nedrick, cracking his knuckles. "A puzzle that requires logic and socially awkward small talk."

Runklebean started to answer a riddle with interpretive dance, which nearly caused the wall to throw up magical spikes, but Nedrick halted him just in time.

"This is where we use brains. Lucian, can you hold the wall if it tries to kill us?"

Lucian flexed. "Always."

Alistair, now visibly sweating, sat down to take out his amulet and check his blood sugar. With a flick of the clasp, a small needle slid out, which he used to prick his finger and check the reading. "All right, you've got about ten minutes before I need to eat something sugary."

Nedrick solved the first riddle with agricultural metaphors. Alistair got the second by charming the wall with flattery and quoting fashionable philosophers. The third involved Runklebean explaining how socks are technically legal tender in seventeen forest-based economies, which somehow was the answer.

"I'm never sure if he's a genius or a threat to infrastructure," muttered Nedrick as the wall dissolved.

They entered the final chamber, where the Medallion of Soggoth hovered above a stone dais surrounded by vines, bats, and a rumbling growl that sounded like indigestion amplified through a megaphone.

A Guardian Beast emerged—a six-eyed basilisk covered in thick layers of moss and bad attitude.

Lucian charged. "Time for cohesion!"

Runklebean yelled, "COHESIFY!" and sprinted behind him, immediately tripping over a root and splatting face-first into the ground, successfully creating a distraction.

Nedrick shouted, "Left flank! Go low!" as he hurled a sling-stone. The beast staggered, confused.

Alistair whirled into the fray, distracting it with glittering daggers and aggressive dance lunges. "Over here, darling! Come get a taste!"

Lucian lifted Runklebean and spun him like a flail. "Deploy the chaos!"

"CHAOTIFY!" Runklebean squealed, smacking the basilisk in all six eyes simultaneously.

Nedrick leapt in and grabbed the Medallion with one hand, yanking it free before the dais could trigger a collapsing ceiling trap.

As the chamber began to fall apart, the princes and Runklebean ran—gasping, laughing, bleeding only slightly—out of the cave, the Medallion safely in hand.

They collapsed into the grass outside, panting.

"We did it," Lucian said.

"Mostly by accident," added Nedrick.

"I like to think of it as collaborative improvisation," Alistair said, taking out his bag of gourmet jellybeans to nibble on.

Runklebean waved at a butterfly. "That was the most brumbulous adventure of my life."

They sat there for a long time, bruised and battered, but proud. 

Later that evening, Lucian stood outside Alistair's door at the inn, balancing a paper bag of snacks and a six-pack of juice boxes. He hesitated—just long enough to second-guess himself—then knocked.

The door swung open. Alistair looked good: colour in his cheeks, hair still damp from a bath, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There was a faint bruise on his temple from the day's adventure, barely visible unless you were looking closely. Lucian had been.

"Something wrong?" Alistair questioned.

"No, no. What, uh… what did you think of the adventure today?" Lucian asked.

Alistair smiled. "I thought it was great. Just what I needed, actually. And you?"

"Oh, it was great!" Lucian smiled back. "Um… can I come in?" 

Alistair wordlessly stepped aside to let him through.

Lucian dropped the bag on a little table and started unpacking: trail mix, crackers, peanut butter, fruit chews, cheese, juice. "Don't get mad. But I went out just now and bought some emergency snacks," he said. "A whole survival kit."

Alistair laughed softly, touched. "I already have stuff, you know."

"Not the point." Lucian turned to face him. "You scared me yesterday, Al. I didn't know what was happening. I thought—"

"I know." His voice was gentle. "I should've told you. I just didn't want a chronic illness to completely take over your perception of me, you know? I… I didn't want it to be one of the first things you knew about me."

Lucian folded his arms. "It wasn't. But it's one of the most important things. I still don't get why you'd hide it."

"Because sometimes people treat me differently after they find out. Overprotective. Awkward." He shrugged. "Or they just disappear."

"I didn't disappear," Lucian said.

"No." Alistair looked at him then, really looked. "You stayed. You saved my ass."

Lucian gave a half-shrug. "Guess I like you too much to let you drop dead in front of me."

That surprised him. "I… thought we were supposed to be rivals?"

"Rivals, yeah. Not enemies." Lucian looked away, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, I just thought that… well, can't our rivalry be whatever we want it to be?"

A long beat passed.

Then Alistair chuckled. "For the record… being your rival is some of the best fun I've ever had."

Lucian grinned. "Even after I almost gave you the wrong potion and nearly killed you?"

He laughed. "Especially because of that."

Lucian nudged Alistair with his shoulder. "Okay. But from now on, I need to be in the loop. I need to know your elixir ratios and what low blood sugar looks like on you."

Alistair's eyebrows lifted. "You're that serious?"

Lucian smiled. "Deadly. This time, we're all managing it together."