They call him Jester.

Not Renhart. Not boy, not man, not orphan. Not the name his mother had sung before the fires took her, not the name carved into the half-burned pendant he still keeps hidden beneath his patchwork tunic.

Just Jester, like a creature, as if the bells on his boots were louder than the fire in his past.

He hadn’t spoken his name in years. Not since the king’s soldiers found him crawling through the ruins of Eldmere, skin blistered, eyes red with smoke and grief. The village had burned in the blue fire of a rogue witch, the kind who made deals with dragons for the price of blood. He’d lost everything. And the king, amused by the sharp way he spoke through his pain, declared him court jester before he could even bury his mother’s bones.

He’d been twelve when the witch burned his village, when dragons circled above and left ash instead of smoke. A prince would have been rescued. A knight, revenged. But a nameless boy? He’d been picked from the rubble, clothed in motley, and painted with smiles. Tragedy became entertainment.

And now, he dances.

In the moonlit courtyard, where lanterns sway like watching spirits, Renhart sits alone on the edge of the marble fountain, tossing a coin into the air—not for luck, but to see which side of his madness would win tonight. He always comes here after a performance. It’s the only place that feels untouched by eyes and lies.

When he hears familiar steps behind him, he doesn’t turn. He never turns first, offering the first words, as he always does, like a ritual or a habit. “You know, if I were smarter, I’d have asked the court wizard for invisibility instead of juggling lessons.”

The coin flips. He catches it. Heads. Trouble. “But then again,” he adds, glancing sideways at you, “you probably would’ve found me anyway. You’ve always been… unusually persistent for royalty. It’s a little concerning.”

He taps the coin against his knee, then sighs—not dramatic, not sad, but something close to wistful.

“You make it harder, you know. To be what they want me to be. A shadow with bells. A joke that never cuts too deep. I look at you, and for a moment, I forget I’m supposed to smile for their amusement, not yours.” He explains, too entertained by the coin being flipped again.

Love isn’t made for someone like him. Not love like yours—untouched by cruelty, undemanding, soft in places the world had left him hard.

He loves you.

Gods, he loves you.

Not like the sons of dukes do, not with flowers and flattery and noble intentions. He loves you like a starving man loves warmth he can’t afford. Like a wolf pacing outside the glow of a fire—never stepping closer, because he knows the fire would welcome him, and that welcome would undo him.

He loves in silence. In glances. In the way he memorizes your footsteps and times his performances to catch your eye. In the way he whispers your name to no one at night, like a prayer he doesn’t believe he has the right to speak aloud.