“With her dark magic, she struck them down—both the prince and his lovely bride fell, their lives stolen in an instant.”
The puppets collapse as though their strings have been cut, and a hush falls over the watching children.
“But what of the prince’s son?”the puppeteer asks softly.“Theheir to the throne?”
He pauses, letting the silence stretch andIfeel my heart fist in my chest.
“Some say he perished alongside his parents, his tiny body consumed by the sorceress’s fire.”
The children boo and hiss at that, their faces pinched with dismay.
“But others say…”Helowers his voice conspiratorially.“Otherssay his innocence shielded him.Thatthe curse could not touch one so pure.”
A murmur runs through the crowd.
“He vanished,” the puppeteer continues.“Lostto the world.Andthough theOldKingsearched for years, he never found his grandson.”
The other puppets are whisked away, leaving only theOldKingsitting alone upon his throne, his head bowed in grief.
“Yet hope remained,” the puppeteer says.“Fora prophecy was spoken—that one day, theLostPrincewould return.”
I find myself leaning forward slightly, my breath catching as the familiar words begin.
“When blood calls blood and truth stands tall,
The hidden heir shall heed the call.
Through shadowed path and time’s cruel seam,
He walks at last from whispered dream
No crown upon his brow at first
No gold to mark the royal birth,
Yet heart to heart and soul to bone,
TheKingshall know him as his own.
And when the lost is found again,
Joy shall return to heal the land.”
The children clap and cheer as a young man puppet enters the stage, and theOldKinglooks up, rising from his throne.Thetwo embrace as the curtain falls, ending the show on a hopeful, happy note that lightens the heart.AtleastIknow it lightens mine.
TheLostPrinceis an old tale but it’s based in truth—everything really did happen just as the puppeteer said, though some say theKing’sson and his wife were killed by a plague and others say it was a mysterious poison.Buteither way, their son—theLostPrince—vanished and theOldKinghas been without an heir ever since.
For a moment,Ijust stand there, caught in the lingering spell of the puppet show.Thenthe world rushes back in—the noise of the street…the murmur of voices…the weight in my chest.
I let out a soft sigh and turn toTheron.
“Sorry.Ijust love that old story.”Ihesitate, then add quietly, “It’sso sad, don’t you think?ThattheOldKinglost his son and daughter-in-law and his grandson all at once?”
Theron shrugs, his expression unreadable.
“It’s just a fairy story for children.Comeon—we need to go.”
I flinch inwardly, the fragile warmth the puppet show stirred inside me snapping like a thread pulled too tight.Ofcourse he would dismiss it.Whywouldn’t he?
