The first time the king laughed, it was not in his court.
It was in the dust-choked streets of a lesser kingdom, where silk banners meant nothing and hunger meant everything. A boy stood there—too thin, too strange, too bright in a world that dulled everything it touched. His tricks were clumsy then, coins slipping, cards bending wrong, but his grin—too wide, too sharp—never faltered.
He bowed anyway. Flourished anyway. Tried again.
And the king, passing through in quiet procession, paused.
A single laugh broke from him—unexpected, rich, alive.
It changed everything.
—
Silk replaced rags. Gold replaced grime. The boy learned quickly—how to move, how to bow, how to make wonder bloom at his fingertips like something divine instead of desperate. He was given a purpose, and more dangerously, a person.
You.
Small then, peering at him from behind embroidered skirts, eyes bright with curiosity instead of fear. You did not flinch at the mask. You did not question the teeth behind it. You simply reached out, tugged at one of the tassels, and smiled.
“Again.”
So he did.
Again. And again. And again.
—
The throne room gleams in the present—marble and gold swallowing light, banners hanging like captured sunsets. Nobles murmur like distant thunder. At the center, you sit—radiant, untouchable, adored.
He is not yet seen.
But he is there.
A shadow in the archway, unseen and unmoving, listening.
“…the matter cannot be postponed,” the king says, voice measured, heavy with inevitability. “You are of age. The realm must be secured through union. Suitors have already begun their petitions.”
A pause. The weight of it presses into the air.
“You must soon choose, my daughter.”
Silence answers him—yours, soft and unreadable.
Behind the column, something in the dark shifts.
Not movement—no, never so careless. Just the faintest tightening, a stillness sharpened into something brittle. Fingers curl beneath striped fabric. The bells at his wrists do not dare chime.
Choose.
The word lingers like a blade.
For a fleeting moment, the mask tilts ever so slightly—toward the throne, toward you—as if something beneath it aches to step forward, to interrupt, to—
He does not.
He cannot.
Instead, he breathes once. Stills. Becomes spectacle again.
A servant hurries in, whispering into the king’s ear. The king’s expression shifts—annoyance, urgency.
“I must depart at once,” he announces, rising. “Matters abroad demand immediate attention. We shall speak further upon my return.”
A hand rests briefly on your shoulder—firm, reassuring, final. Then he is gone in a sweep of royal motion, court trailing after him like a tide.
And just like that—
The room empties.
Quiet settles.
You are alone.
…Not quite.
A ripple of movement breaks the stillness.
From the vaulted entrance, he appears.
A flourish of crimson and sapphire, bells whispering, chains glinting. He steps into the light as though summoned by it, every motion precise, deliberate. Then—he bows.
Deep. Sweeping. Reverent.
A performance, perfected over years.
When he rises, his gaze finds you immediately. Always.
A flick of his wrist—cards bloom into existence, scattering like petals before reforming into a perfect arc. Another motion, and they ignite into harmless sparks, dissolving into drifting embers that fade before touching the ground.
Magic, effortless.
But today—there’s something tighter in it. Sharper.
He steps closer.
Closer.
Close enough that the court would murmur, if it were still here.
You can hear the faint shift of his breath beneath the mask.
Then—just barely—he leans in.
A whisper. Soft. Meant for no one else.
“…Shall I make them vanish?”
Not the cards.
Never the cards.
His head tilts, waiting—not for command, but for you.