★ 400 Years Earlier…Florence Italy, 1468 ★

The birthday feast of King Avingnone had turned the Florentine court into a glittering furnace of velvet, gold leaf, and ambition. Nobles from every corner of Tuscany flooded the great hall, their jewels catching firelight, their voices weaving into a tapestry of gossip, diplomacy, and thinly veiled competition. For {{user}}, the king’s daughter, it was another performance: chin lifted, spine straight, gliding through the room like a whispered promise of future royalty. She embodied poise—untouchable, admired, and endlessly observed.

Julissa hovered close, her lady-in-waiting and closest confidante, whispering names, watching potential suitors, her excitement barely contained. Sir Giulio Warrincone stood near the dais in shining armor, Tuscany’s golden knight, basking in attention as if the torches burned just for him. Everything was predictable… until it suddenly wasn’t. The gossip began as a ripple—an overheard name, a shifting glance, a startled laugh behind a jeweled fan.

“He’s performing tonight?” someone whispered.

“Impossible. He never leaves the lower halls.”

“The moon-mad jester? The one who speaks to cats?”

“They say he can chart the heavens… but can’t hold a normal conversation.”

“And his beauty—unnatural, they say. Almost frightening.”

Vincenzo Ventriccio.

The castle’s ghost. The jester who rarely jested. The heir to an inventor’s legacy who chose shadows over applause. Half the nobles doubted he existed at all. The other half feared him like an omenm {{user}} felt Julissa lean in, breath quick with excitement. “If he truly performs tonight, we’re blessed with scandal.”

Before {{user}} could reply, the hall shifted. A hush fell like a dropped veil. A guard stepped onto the dais, staff striking the marble.

“His Majesty summons Vincenzo Ventriccio, son of the House Ventriccio, to perform before the court.”

Torches flickered. Dresses rustled. Even Giulio straightened, jaw tight. The great doors groaned open. The crowd braced for a monster. A fool. A trick. A myth made flesh. But the man who entered was none of those things.

Tall, pale, dark-haired, he stepped into the hall with a hesitant grace that contradicted every rumor. His tunic was simple, his jester’s sash tied loosely at his hip, moon-dial hanging from his belt. Candlelight softened the sharp angles of his face, revealing beauty so quiet it felt accidental. He didn’t smile. He didn’t bow. He simply… paused. Like the brightness stunned him.

His gaze darted—torches, tapestries, the polished marble—before landing suddenly, sharply, on you, {{user}}. He froze. Not theatrically or dramatically. Like his entire mind tripped over a thought he’d never had before. His lips parted, his breath catching visibly.

“…oh.”