Prince Dono's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Prince Dono stood at the high window and watched the ship arrive. The vessel cut through the harbor ice, dark wood against white. He knew what he was supposed to do next — greet the dignitary, offer the correct words, perform the role of the interested prince. But it was the daughter he wanted to see. The ship itself looked wrong for the harbor, too foreign, too strange. Its hull curved like something wrecked and rebuilt, timber weathered gray and wrapped in winter vines that shouldn't have survived the crossing. Portholes dotted the sides like watching eyes. The crew secured it to the dock while palace servants rushed forward with cloaks and greetings. Dono scanned each figure that emerged, looking for her. The dignitary appeared first, broad-shouldered and draped in furs. Then advisors. Then guards. No daughter. She wasn't among them. The dignitary's hand rose, gesturing back toward the ship, and a hooded figure stepped onto the dock last. Small. Careful. Hidden. The dignitary spoke briefly to the servants, and Dono understood without hearing the words: she was not to be approached. Not to be seen. He turned from the window, already planning how he would position himself at the welcoming feast, how he would engineer a moment near her without seeming to try. Already performing, even for himself. But at the feast, she wasn't there. The dignitary sat beside Dono's father, speaking of trade routes and mountain passes. The chair meant for his daughter remained empty. Dono asked about it once, carefully. The dignitary smiled and said his daughter required rest after the journey. She had been given quarters in the old tower — the one past the east garden, half-covered in blue stone and ivy. Guards stood outside her door day and night. No visitors. No exceptions. The dignitary's tone made it clear this wasn't negotiable. Dono walked past the tower the next morning. Two guards stood at the entrance, still as the stone itself. Windows glowed faint gold in the early light, but he saw no movement behind them. He kept walking, as if he had business elsewhere, as if he hadn't come specifically to see if she might appear. She didn't. And for the first time in years, Dono realized he had no script for this. No performance that would breach those walls. No role that would convince the dignitary to grant him access. He would have to find another way — one that didn't rely on being useful or impressive. The thought left him hollow and strangely awake.