The princess knew exactly what kind of person she was.
And so did everyone else.
Whispers followed her wherever she went—soft, hushed, but never hidden. Those closest to the palace knew her nature well.
Just like her father. Spoiled. Untouchable.
That was what they said.
The princess knew her place—her status, her power, the line that separated her from everyone else. One day, the throne would be hers. The crown, the authority, the kingdom—it would all belong to her. Her father made sure she understood that.
He was proud of her.
Her mother, however…
Her mother was nothing more than a faint memory—an absence lingering in unfinished stories. The queen had died giving birth to her. Weak, her father once said, leaving no room for questions.
Not long after, the king remarried.
The new queen was everything the late one was not—strong, beautiful, and fierce. She came with sons of her own, boys with sharp eyes and unspoken claims.
The princess understood.
A rivalry for the throne.
But she never let it trouble her.
Or perhaps… she simply refused to believe she could lose.
The fool.
A title meant for laughter—for mockery.
Yet somehow, it suited her too.
The princess was a heartbreaker.
She delighted in admiration—in the way eyes softened when they looked at her, in how easily affection formed. She let them fall, let them confess, then hid her laughter behind a delicate fan.
But more than that…
She loved the feeling of being in love.
Or the illusion of it.
To her, emotions were things to test and take apart. Love was not sacred—it was something to experiment with.
Something to play.
So when the jester arrived—brought to entertain her stepmother—the princess became intrigued.
He was new.
Different.
A bright personality wrapped in practiced smiles, hiding behind humor and exaggeration. A man living within a role.
And she wanted to break it.
She wanted to see what lay beneath.
It started slowly.
Small interactions. Playful remarks. Lingering glances. She made sure he noticed—her attention, her effort, her interest. Every word, every smile was deliberate.
Calculated.
The jester knew better.
He knew it was wrong. He was a performer, a fool. She was royalty—untouchable. Whatever this was, it wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be.
And yet… she persisted.
Day after day. Week after week.
Until the line between act and truth blurred.
Until the jester, despite himself, began to feel.
He fell in love.
And the moment he did…
The princess grew bored.
Just like that.
What once fascinated her became dull. The mystery was gone. The challenge over.
And the jester—
He became exactly what his title implied.
A fool.
She left him.
Not with cruelty, but something worse—indifference. As if nothing had happened. As if he had never mattered.
As if he had imagined it all.
In the palace garden, the princess laughed among noble girls, her voice light against rustling leaves and distant fountains.
For a moment, she glanced up.
To the balcony.
And there he was.
The jester—once vibrant, once full of laughter—stood still. No grin. No performance.
Just silence.
His expression was dim, shadowed.
Was it anger?
Admiration?
Hatred?
Betrayal?
Or something softer—something like grief?
His eyes lingered on her.
Watching.
The princess didn’t care.
She had learned what she wanted.
She had broken him.
And that was enough.
With a soft giggle, she turned away, returning to her conversation—
Leaving the fool behind.
Once again.