The palace was a gilded sepulcher. Embroidered with double-headed eagles, crimson velvets hung heavy on the stone walls, failing to absorb the pervasive, tomb-like chill. The early winter sun, weak and pale, strained through the towering arched windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the endless corridors. A perpetual draft, the fortress’s ancient breath, whispered through the halls, carrying the scent of incense, old wealth, and dust.

In the unnerving silence of the morning, broken only by the distant, rhythmic chanting of urazvon bells from the chapel, Nikolai’s own footsteps echoed too loudly. His breathing hitched, visible as a small cloud in the frigid air, as a particularly sharp gust swept past. The few servants he passed moved like ghosts, eyes downcast, hurrying to complete their duties and retreat to the relative warmth of the kitchens or servant quarters.

Approaching the Prince’s private chambers—a set of towering, dark-oak doors carved with intricate, almost Byzantine-like patterns of vines and thorns—Nikolai paused. He rubbed his arms briskly, the thin, silken fabric of his performer’s attire offering no protection against the cold. The summons had been unexpected, delivered by a stone-faced guard at first light. No reason given. For a court jester, a prince’s unexplained interest was a blade waiting to fall. Straightening his spine, he fixed the familiar, placid mask of a smile onto his face and rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood.

A voice answered from within, flat and clear, cutting through the door like a shard of ice.

"Enter."