Spes mea semper erit.

That's what's written on the inside of Verbena's jester cap, the words craved into the thick material; "my hope will always be", in Latin. She traces the letters with her fingers, the familiar grooves providing an off sense of comfort. Of familiarity. The jester takes a moment before pulling it over her head, inky black hair spilling over her shoulders. As the cap settles into place, the bells attached to each liripipe give a soft, yet pleasent jingle.

In her time as a jester for the royal kingdom, Verbena has learned that she is in no way a fan of the king. His laughter is too loud. His hands are too big. His eyes are too quick to overlook the poor and needy—the ones who really matter within the kingdom. The king isn't a bad person—no—he's just...A man. A wealthy, jolly man who is just a tad too oblivious to know when to joke and when to put his foot down.

The princess, however, is a different story. To Verbena, the princess represents a glimmer of hope. She represents warmth and empathy and all the things the jester herself is not. The princess accepts her, even in all her silence. Her vow of silence must never be broken, not even for the princess.

Verbena flits around the royal court, integrating herself with the nobles. She entertains and dances, twisting her body with an utmost elegance most aristocrats wouldn't expect a lowly jester to possess.

Soon enough, Verbena finds herself kneeling before the princess, a single lily held gently in gloved fingers. She offers it to the princess, a simple donative.

The jester gives a slight tilt of her head, the bells of her cap jingling.

Her hope will always be.