The Royal Misadventure
Princes Alistair and Barnaby were not "forest people."
Alistair’s idea of roughing it was a room without a silk duvet, and Barnaby once tried to duel a butterfly because it looked at him "disrespectfully."
So, being stranded in the Whispering Woods after their horses decided they’d rather be literally anywhere else was a disaster.
"Barnaby, I’ve found a berry," Alistair announced, holding a neon purple fruit that was vibrating.
"Don’t eat that. It looks like it has a grudge," Barnaby replied, poking a tree with his jewel-encrusted rapier. "Besides, how are we lost? You said you had a sense of direction!"
"I do! My direction is currently 'away from the scary squirrels.'"
As night fell, the brothers tried to build a fire. Barnaby attempted to use two rubies to create a spark. "Rubies represent fire, Alistair. It’s basic symbolism."
"Symbolism doesn't cook a pheasant, you buffoon!" Alistair snapped, trying to ignite a damp log with sheer indignation.
They eventually gave up and spent the night huddled together, screaming every time an owl hooted. Alistair claimed he was "establishing dominance" via vocal projection.
By morning, they were covered in sap and shame.
"If we die here," Barnaby whimpered, "tell the court I died fighting a dragon. Not because I tripped over a root and cried for twenty minutes."
Suddenly, the forest floor began to dissolve into a soft, white mist.
The terrifyingly loud crickets turned into the sound of a distant harp.
Alistair blinked. He wasn't leaning against a jagged oak; he was face-down on a plate of cold waffles.
Barnaby was snoring loudly across the breakfast table, clutching a butter knife like a sword.
"Your Highnesses?" the head butler whispered, poking them gently.
Alistair looked at his clean, sap-free hands.
“Barnaby, wake up. We aren’t forest people.”
“Did I kill the dragon?” Barnaby muttered into his napkin.
“No,” Alistair sighed.
“You just buttered your own sleeve.”
