The sun lazily rolled over the treetops, and the forest path bathed in soft morning light. The little band of troublemakers marched ahead, while Malgorn followed behind in light armor, arms crossed over his chest. They’d set out exactly at half past nine. The children themselves had insisted on taking the prescribed rest in the settlement.
The prince looked like a mountain among the trees. He kept silent, his heavy steps thudding against the trail. Everyone had made it through the night in the village — even those who’d been afraid. Malgorn knew there wasn’t much left; soon his task would be over. Another success would bring him one step closer to claiming Tal Namaréa.
The children were unusually lively that morning, racing each other and laughing loudly. Still, their overall pace wasn’t exactly impressive. The boys ran everywhere except forward, and Apron stayed behind from the very start, dragging her feet near the end of the line.
Time passed, and the group found themselves walking a dirt road between wide meadows.
Malgorn strode ahead, eager to see the task finished. Like Prince Qelmar before him, his thoughts drifted, and without noticing, he’d outpaced the entire Band of Mischief. When he glanced back, his heart nearly stopped. The group of children had halted far behind and seemed to be arguing about something. A jolt of dread went through him. He suddenly remembered — Belara had spoken of five trials, and he had only gone through four.
Quickening his pace, Malgorn hurried back to the children, determined to fix whatever it was and move on as fast as possible.
As he approached, he called out to Red, who was the first to notice him.
“Red! What’s going on? Did someone get hurt?”
“Apron’s missing Skirty,” Red called back.
Malgorn’s vision darkened. All day yesterday, Apron had been on the sidelines, barely taking part in anything. She’d carried that rag doll everywhere, never letting it out of her sight. He’d thought her just a quiet tag-along. Big mistake. The silent, gentle Apron was a bomb waiting to go off the moment they left the royal courtyard — and now, she exploded.
“I don’t have my doll,” she said, voice trembling, tears filling her eyes as Malgorn reached them.
The prince sighed. “I’ll buy you a new one. Now come on, we need to keep moving.”
“I can’t.”
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“Sure you can. Just walk like before — only without the doll.”
“I won’t,” said Apron, and Malgorn realized there was no way he’d get her moving by force.
“Where did you leave it?”
“In the village.”
The prince cursed aloud. The village was far behind them. Going back would mean a huge delay — he might as well give up the task altogether.
“I’m not going anywhere without Skirty,” Apron declared.
“And we’re not going anywhere without Apron,” said Rascal, speaking for the rest of the Band.
Malgorn froze. Apron refused to go forward; he refused to go back.
His patience snapped. He growled, anger flashing in his eyes. “Stop crying and move!”
Apron just burst into louder sobs, covering her face with her hands.
“Apron!” he barked. “Don’t test my patience — start walking!”
Nothing. Not even a flinch.
“No!” she stomped her foot, glaring at him through tears.
“I said move,” he growled and grabbed her by the arm.
He was so blinded by her defiance that he didn’t notice the quiet ripple that passed through the rest of the Band. They all knew he was standing right on the edge of Princess Belara’s rule — and they waited to see what would happen.
“Move forward,” Malgorn said, slow and sharp. He tugged her arm lightly.
“I’m not going anywhere without Skirty!” Apron cried and tried to pull away.
Malgorn forgot the rule. Instinct took over — he yanked his arm back, pulling the girl off balance. She stumbled and fell hard onto the dirt road.
He let go instantly. He knew he’d crossed a line. Still, he hoped — foolishly — that maybe it wasn’t too late.
It was.
“You’re disqualified,” said Red quietly.
“Disqualified,” said Moose.
“Disqualified,” added Rascal.
“Disqualified,” echoed Bones.
“Disqualified. Disqualified. Disqualified…”
The word rippled down the road, fading among the grasses.
Malgorn stared at them one by one, as if hoping he’d misheard.
But the final blow came from Apron herself. She stood up, brushed off her knees, and pointed a finger at him.
“Prince Malgorn, for violating the rule against physical force set by Princess Belara, we hereby disqualify you from the first task of the tournament.”
No doubt remained. He had failed.
Malgorn — the great war leader who had crushed two noble uprisings — now stood on a country road looking like a scolded boy. A prince. The heir to the throne. Powerless before the verdict of a little girl.
He had lost.
Silence hung in the air. Malgorn said nothing. Then Rascal spoke up.
“Even though you’ve been disqualified, we still have to reach the destination. That’s where our ride back to the royal court is waiting. You won’t earn a point for finishing, but we’ll give Princess Belara a truthful report of what happened.”
“And what if I disagree?” the prince asked.
“Then we remind you of this,” said Red calmly. “If there’s ever a question of what really happened, Princess Belara will believe the Band of Mischief. What the prince says doesn’t matter — he could lie just to win. You agreed to that when you accepted her challenge. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Malgorn said nothing. After a moment, he murmured, “Then let’s go.”
The group set off again. The children no longer needed to keep up the pace, and they reached their destination fairly quickly.
When a stone tower rose ahead in the middle of the meadows, the kids cheered and ran forward.
By the time the prince caught up, two carriages were already waiting beside the tower. Jhalen stepped forward to greet him.
“Welcome, Prince of Zerboras. A shame you were disqualified so close to the finish. But don’t worry — you’re still in the game. You still have a chance to win. Please, get in the carriage. Let’s return to Ghurmaka.”
