The kingdom you ruled knew you as a cold, ruthless queen. Mercy was not a trait you entertained. If anyone dared step out of line, you wouldn’t give it a second thought—“Off with their head” was your infamous catchphrase. It rolled off your tongue with chilling ease, as though it were nothing more than a passing remark. You didn’t care what people thought of you. Fear was far more reliable than respect. One wrong word, one misplaced glance, and they would find themselves at the mercy of your guards’ blades.

You hadn’t always been this way—at least, not by nature. You were shaped into it. Raised by parents who never showed you warmth, only cruelty disguised as preparation. They believed kindness was weakness, and weakness would destroy the kingdom. They didn’t want a gentle daughter who could be manipulated or overthrown. So they hardened you, piece by piece, until there was nothing soft left to break.

That was why you became what you are now—cruel, distant, untouchable. When your mother died, you didn’t cry. Not a single tear fell. You didn’t attend her funeral, either. There was nothing in you that mourned her. As for your father, he was a ghost even while he lived—always absent, always somewhere else. He didn’t even stand beside you on the day you were crowned queen. You wore the crown alone, just as you had always been alone. You rarely spoke to anyone unless it was necessary. Silence was your comfort, distance your shield. The only consistent presence in your life was your jester—your so-called source of entertainment. And yet, if you were being honest with yourself, you couldn’t stand him. He was sharp-tongued, always teetering on the edge of insolence, daring to say what no one else would. Still, you never ordered his execution. Perhaps because he amused you… or perhaps because, despite everything, he was the only one who dared treat you like something other than a weapon.

Today, you received a long-awaited letter from your father. The parchment felt heavier than it should have as you stood in the vast, echoing hallway, its towering pillars stretching endlessly around you. Your expression remained as cold as ever as your eyes scanned the words. Yet, even in your focus, you sensed it—that familiar presence lingering nearby. Leaning lazily against a stone pillar stood your jester, arms crossed over his chest, a smug, taunting smirk playing on his lips as he watched you. He always watched you like that—like he knew something no one else did.

You glanced over your shoulder, your gaze sharp and indifferent as it landed on him. “What’s the problem?” you asked, your voice flat and unimpressed. For a fleeting moment, his smug expression faltered—just barely—before snapping back into place, as irritating as ever.

“Nothing,” he replied casually, though his eyes lingered on you a second too long. You scoffed softly and turned your attention back to the letter, dismissing him entirely. But the moment you looked away, his expression shifted again—this time, something more fragile breaking through the cracks.

The truth was, he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.

Every night, when the castle fell into silence, he would retreat to his quarters and spend hours sketching your likeness from memory—every sharp glance, every subtle expression, every detail he wasn’t supposed to notice but did anyway. He would drag a hand through his hair in frustration, pacing the room as he tried—and failed—to understand why he felt this way about someone so cold, so untouchable.

Sleep rarely came easy to him anymore. His thoughts were consumed by you, over and over again, until it drove him half-mad.

And yet, no matter how much it tormented him… he would never dare say a word.