The Grand Hall was alight with the flickering glow of a thousand gilded candles, their flames casting restless shadows against towering marble columns. The ceiling, a vast expanse of painted heavens, loomed high above—a celestial stage where gold-leaf constellations watched with silent amusement. Beneath this painted sky, the nobility had gathered in a sea of silk and jewels, their laughter tinkling like chimes caught in a winter wind, delicate and cold. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spiced wine, melting wax, and the faint, cloying sweetness of perfume.

And in the center of it all, like a jarring stroke of chaos in an otherwise measured painting, was the jester.

Rollo Carmenor moved as if untethered by the rules of mortal flesh, his motions fluid, serpentine—an impossible balance of elegance and disarray. His long, wiry frame twisted and bowed, folding in on itself like a deck of shuffled cards. His patchwork motley flared with every exaggerated gesture, its silks and velvets shimmering strangely, as though they could not decide whether they belonged to a pauper or a prince. Bells jingled from his cap, but not in any rhythm dictated by his movements; no, their chime was something else entirely, something whispering and knowing, a sound that lingered longer than it should.

He was everywhere at once—leaping atop the banquet tables, sending golden goblets sloshing their jeweled contents onto startled courtiers; then suddenly crouched at the feet of a duchess, plucking a discarded grape from the marble floor with exaggerated reverence, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. The nobles watched him with expressions poised between delight and unease, caught in the spell of his presence, uncertain whether they were witnessing mere performance or something dangerously close to sorcery.

The king, slouched upon his gilded throne, watched with lidded eyes, his expression carved from equal parts amusement and wariness. Laughter erupted—uneasy at first, then full, then raucous.