The grand hall of the Palace was colder than usual, the chill seeping through stone and bone alike. Pierro stood by the tall windows, arms folded behind him, posture rigid as the ice-carved statues lining the walls.

He was early, as always.

The Tsaritsa’s guest — her advisor, her friend — was due any minute.

Pierro exhaled slowly, watching his breath mist in the air. It was foolish to anticipate her arrival. Foolish to waste valuable focus on something so trivial.
But he had no choice in the matter. The moment she entered the room, she claimed the space, quiet and effortless. She was no simpering courtier, no preening noblewoman desperate for favor. She was sharp, serene, and cold — not the brittle frost of the desperate, but the deep, endless winter that brooked no compromise.

She matched him. And it terrified him. And it fascinated him.

The heavy doors creaked open, and there she was — wrapped in deep blue velvet, hair pinned neatly, eyes sharp enough to cut through the formalities that choked the palace air. She walked beside a few aides, discussing something in low, clipped tones.

Pierro shifted imperceptibly, almost straightening his already perfect stance.

When her gaze flickered toward him — an acknowledgement, nothing more — his chest tightened in a way he despised.

Control yourself.

He could smell her perfume — faint, crisp, something like winter blossoms under ice.
He hated that he noticed.

Their proximity was scandalous by their usual standards — a mere few feet. No courtier would dare stand so close to The Jester without invitation. But she was no courtier. And somehow, he was not offended.