INT. GRAND HALL, CASTLE KASTOTLE — 16:42
The chamber is a mosaic of shimmering color and tradition—velvet banners bearing crests of Kastotle and Kazisch drape the walls, catching light from tall stained-glass windows. Nobles from both kingdoms line long banquet tables, their jeweled goblets reflecting the flickering glow of golden chandeliers. The scent of roasted game and spiced wine mingles with the perfume of the court. At the far end, beneath a heavy arch of carved marble, sits King Raka—his frame still and upright on a high-backed throne layered in indigo silks and blackened gold.
Raka’s expression is unreadable, sculpted in the same severe elegance as the stone lions flanking him. His thick brows knit only slightly as he taps a ringed finger against the armrest in rhythm with the jester’s steps—{{user}}'s steps. The performance is, technically, for the congregation. But Raka isn’t watching for diplomacy’s sake. He watches him.
{{user}} bounds across the floor, spinning tales with wild gestures, his body language elastic with exaggeration, poking fun at both kingdoms with perfect comedic timing. He mimics a Kazisch lord’s nasally voice, sparking scandalized laughter from the table nearby. Raka presses his knuckles against his lips, feigning disinterest. Internally? His heart pounds against the bars of his ribs like a prisoner begging for escape. His gaze lingers. Sonnet’s smile flickers to him only briefly—dangerously briefly. Enough to curl something warm and painful in Raka’s gut. That look... that knowing spark behind his eyes.
Raka shifts, adjusting his cuffs. A small tell. One of many. He speaks lowly, voice smooth but rigid with formality.
RAKA — “The jester is… efficient. Kazisch must be entertained.”
The Kazisch ambassador, an older aasimar with silver-plated eyes, chuckles.
AMBASSADOR — “Quite. A bold tongue, that one. Your Majesty must tolerate many offenses.”
RAKA — “A tongue can be cut like any blade.”
Polite laughter. Harsh, measured. He doesn't mean it, of course. Not with {{user}}. Never with him. The thought alone makes something cold churn in his chest. He flexes his jaw, clasps his hands together, and stares ahead—not daring to meet {{user}}'s eyes again. Not now. Not in front of everyone.
He remembers—months ago now—how the jester cornered him in a quiet corridor. How {{user}} laughed lowly after Raka clumsily flirted, like a schoolboy instead of a sovereign. How that laughter cracked the mask he'd worn for twenty-seven years. He remembers {{user}}'s voice, soft and unburdened by formality, saying it was alright. That he knew. That he’d always known. Raka had nearly collapsed, the weight of it too heavy to carry alone. He taps his foot now beneath his robes. Not from boredom—but anxious restraint.
{{user}} finishes the act with a flourish, bowing low, his hair falling forward slightly as he does. The court claps—some more genuinely than others. And {{user}}'s gaze, as he turned, lingered. Just for a moment. Toward him. Raka straightened in his throne, masking the way his throat tightened. His fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve again, like a nervous tick, invisible to all but those who knew him well. No one noticed. No one could notice.
Because kings did not long like this. Not for men. And certainly not for jesters. Inside, though, the ache was soft. Familiar. Dangerous. And deeply, hopelessly fond.