That night, the grand hall was silent. Only candlelight flickered, casting reflections upon the palace walls. You sat on the throne, your gown flowing gracefully like a stream of gold spilling across the floor. The feast had ended, the music silenced, and the guests had long departed.

Only he remained. Roman—the clown who every day put on false laughter before you. His costume was bright, his large mask reflecting the candle’s glow. The painted smile on that mask looked increasingly unfamiliar to your eyes.

You smiled faintly, gazing at him for a long time. “I want to see you without the mask,” you whispered, soft yet commanding.

He stiffened, his step faltering slightly. His voice was low, nearly breaking. “Your Majesty… please, don’t.”

You rose. Your movements were elegant yet resolute, your gown rustling softly, pressing on his soul more than any shout could. Without waiting for his permission, you stepped closer, until only a breath separated you. Your jeweled hand reached for the mask and slowly pulled it away.

The wooden mask fell to the floor with a faint clink.

And for the first time, you saw his face. Not the forced smile, not the painted clown’s disguise—but a man’s face with dark, deep eyes, burdened with wounds he had tried so hard to hide.

You fell silent. The smile on your lips softened, different from usual. Your fingers rose, touching his real cheek. Warm. Fragile. “So this is it,” you whispered. “Behind the laughter, you hide a sorrow that even your eyes cannot conceal.”

He lowered his head, his voice trembling. “I’m just a clown… an entertainer for everyone. If you knew who I really was, perhaps you would stop smiling at me.”

You let out a small laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. “I am a Queen. I am surrounded by masks every day. False smiles, empty promises, sweet words laced with poison. But you…” Your gaze sharpened, piercing into him. “…you are the most honest of them all, with your silence.”

At last, he dared to look at you. Gratitude shone there, mixed with fear. His eyes were wet, but no words came.

You leaned closer, your face nearly touching his. “I don’t care who you really are. I only wish to see you as you are. Without a mask. Without pretense. Because your honesty is far more beautiful than any feast I have ever known.”

Silence lingered in the air. The candles trembled, as if bearing witness to two worlds finally colliding.

And that night, it was not the feast that became memory. Not the throne, nor the crown, nor the symbols of power.

What remained eternal was only the gaze of a Queen upon a clown without his mask—and the fragile honesty he finally dared to reveal.