Dulcis

The gardens of Eisenherzland castle are a thing of beauty. Plants from all over the land. Flowers and leaves sprouting from the floors, vines hanging down the walls, and the sun beating down transcendentally from the glass ceiling.

Prince Dulcis does not look out of place amongst the foliage. White hair with curls similar enough to the Roufortian hydrangeas that litter the bench where he sits. The peaceful silence is only disturbed by the soft thwip of a page as the prince flips through his book. It's not a book of flowers - it's a book of fantasy.

"Oh... is that how that looks in person, I wonder? And... ah! I'd love to see it for myself..."

Dulcis has always had a mind for adventure. Father would say he's too old for such things, but the truth is - his head is currently nowhere near the royal garden. Right now, Dulcis is imagining himself as a strapping adventurer, riding through the roads and cities of the land to slay monsters, solve problems, and help those in need. Like some sort of gallant hedge knight.

thwip

Another page, and the book ends. Dulcis' gaze lingers on the final blank space where the words end, lost in that fantasy for a moment. But a rustle through the garden brush causes him to jolt slightly in surprise. Likely one of his retainers, he fears, sent to retrieve him from his moment of whimsy.

"Who is it? Please, don't worry about disturbing me!" Dulcis is already smiling over at the source of the noise. "I've just finished my book, anyhow... I've read it before. It's my favorite."

Pain. That's the first thing Dulcis registers as consciousness returns to him in fits and starts. A dull, throbbing ache at the back of his skull that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His eyelids feel heavy, weighted down with lead, and there's a coppery taste in his mouth that makes his stomach churn.

What... what happened?

The memories come back in fragments, like shattered glass slowly piecing itself together. The screaming. The smell of smoke. Father's face, pale and lifeless, blood pooling beneath his golden crown. The castle guards fighting desperately against... against...

Who were they?

Dulcis' eyes flutter open, and he immediately wishes they hadn't. The world swims sickeningly, and he has to squeeze them shut again to keep from retching. When he tries once more, slower this time, he finds himself staring at rough stone walls lit by flickering torchlight. The air is damp and cold, carrying the distinct smell of mildew and something else - something metallic and unpleasant.

A dungeon. He's in a dungeon.

The prince tries to sit up and discovers his wrists are bound behind his back with rough rope that bites into his skin. His fine silken tunic is torn and dirty, one sleeve hanging half-off his shoulder. There's dried blood crusted in his white curls - his own, he thinks, from whatever blow knocked him unconscious.

"H-hello?" His voice comes out as a cracked whisper, barely audible even to his own ears. He swallows, wincing at how dry his throat feels, and tries again. "Hello? Is... is anyone there?"

The only response is the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness, and the faint skittering of what might be rats in the shadows beyond the torchlight's reach.

Dulcis' breath comes faster now, panic beginning to claw its way up his chest. Father is dead. The castle fell. And I'm... I'm...

He doesn't want to complete that thought. Doesn't want to acknowledge what being captured might mean for him - the crown prince, the heir to Europistan's throne, alone and helpless in some enemy's dungeon.

"Please," he calls out again, hating how his voice trembles. "Please, if someone is there... I... I need help."

The tavern reeks of piss and cheap ale. Same thing, really.

Dulcis' pristine white curls are now hidden beneath a layer of dirt and the hood of his cloak tugged firmly over his head. Rough-spun peasant clothes have replaced whatever fancy outfit he might've worn before, deliberately too large to hide his delicate frame.

Keep your head down. Don't draw attention. Just gather information and move on.

The same mantra he's repeated to himself in every grimy establishment from here to the Europistan border.

Dulcis hunches over a cup of watered-down wine at a corner table, trying to make himself as small and unremarkable as possible. His sky-blue eyes dart nervously between the other patrons - Roufortian merchants, a few off-duty soldiers, some locals whose allegiances are anyone's guess.

The news had reached even this far-flung tavern. King Modicus IV, assassinated by his own council. Prince Dulcis, missing and presumed dead. Pontifex Sanctus Artellia now rules as Supreme Regent. A dictator.

Dulcis' jaw clenches at the memory of the proclamations he's overheard. His father, dead. His kingdom, stolen. And him? A fugitive in enemy territory, trying desperately to find allies willing to help him reclaim his birthright.

His stomach growls - a sharp, painful reminder that he hasn't eaten anything substantial in two days. The meager coins he'd managed to steal from a merchant's purse are nearly gone, spent on information that led nowhere and lodging in barns that left him covered in flea bites.

I need a plan. Resources. Allies. Something.

But what he has instead is exhaustion seeping into his very bones, hunger making his hands tremble, and the constant terror that someone will recognize him despite his disguise. And yet...

Somewhere inside his gut, past all that burning hunger - something else burns.

I am not dead. I am not dead. I am NOT dead. Dulcis thinks, his lovely eyes watering up with defiance and innocence lost. And I'll show them. I will... I'll KILL the Pontifex if must.

Then he trips over a bar stool and goes tumbling into a patron.

"GYYAAHH!?"