THE PRINCE WHO REFUSED TO BE HEROIC

The Procrastinating Prince The royal courtyard of Grindlewood was a place of elegance, beauty… and right now, loud slurping noises. Prince Elric sat on a velvet cushion under a pear tree, happily shoveling custard pie into his mouth with the urgency of a man who believed pie was a limited-time miracle. His silk robe was splattered with yellow filling, his hair was an unbrushed halo of chaos, and the royal scepter lay on the grass beside him, doubling as a pie server. “Your Highness,” wheezed Sir Buttons, stomping toward him in armor that squeaked like a family of distressed mice, “the Council of Sages has assembled. The Prophecy—” “Ah yes, the Prophecy,” Elric interrupted, licking his fingers. “The one about me ‘saving the kingdom’ before my twenty-first birthday or else the world ends in fire and goats. Or something equally unpleasant.” “It’s geese, sire,” Sir Buttons corrected. “Fire and geese.” “Right, right,” Elric waved a hand. “I still don’t see why the universe can’t choose someone else. I’m busy. There’s a berry tart cooling in the kitchen.” Before Sir Buttons could protest, a puff of purple smoke exploded beside them. Out stepped Tara, the witch-in-training, her hat slightly on fire. “Elric,” she coughed, “we have a… small problem.” “Small problem?” Elric raised an eyebrow. Tara pointed toward the castle gates. A thick, rolling fog was oozing into the courtyard. From inside it came the sound of singing. Very bad, very loud singing. As the fog crept closer, Elric could make out the lyrics: “🎵 I stole the queen’s necklace and blamed it on the cook! 🎵” Sir Buttons froze. “That’s my mother singing.” Tara groaned. “It’s a Truth Fog. Anyone who breathes it in will blurt out their most embarrassing secrets.” Elric took another bite of pie. “Hmm. That is a problem… for literally everyone else. I, however, am perfectly comfortable doing nothing about it.” Just then, the castle doors slammed open. The Queen herself stormed out, her crown tilted and her eyes blazing. “Elric Reginald Pumpernickel the Third!” she thundered. “If you don’t stop that fog by nightfall, I’ll sell the royal pastry kitchen to the Bakers’ Guild!” The pie fell from Elric’s hand in slow motion. His jaw tightened. “This,” he whispered, “is war.” -