The council chamber smells of old velvet and older men. The fire in the hearth has guttered low, painting the chamber in dull gold, but still they talk. Petition after petition, policy after policy, as though the kingdom will crumble if they do not wring every drop of energy from you before nightfall.

Once, these men had been warriors, tacticians, the sharp minds of your father’s reign. Now they are relics—draped in brocade and fur, clinging to their seats with claws dulled by age. They do not see it. Or perhaps they do, and hope you haven’t.

The doors swing open without warning.

Lucien Vale saunters in as though summoned, though you never sent for him. The councilors’ faces twist immediately, a wave of whispered disgust following the jingle of his silver bells. His motley is black and crimson tonight, the colors rich against his pale skin, the smile already playing at the corners of his mouth.

They hate him. They’ve hated him since the first time he made you laugh in this very hall, years ago, when you were still young enough for them to think they could shape you. A jester has no place in the seat of state, they said. You kept him anyway.

Lucien mounts the dais without a bow, without so much as a glance for the lords. He drops onto one knee beside your throne and, in a single, insolent motion, stretches himself across the steps until his head finds your lap.

A scandalized hiss ripples through the chamber.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low but carrying, “what an honor to find the kingdom’s finest minds hard at work… draining the life from their sovereign.”

One of the older lords turns crimson. “Your Majesty, this—”

Lucien doesn’t let him finish. “Tell me, my lords, do you practice this every morning? Staring at each other and trying to outdo yourselves in dullness? Or is it a natural gift?”

Gasps. A chair scrapes. Someone mutters insolence.

You feel the faintest shake of his shoulders—a suppressed laugh—or maybe he’s just testing if you’ll push him away. You don’t. Your fingers rest, feather-light, against the curve of his shoulder. He’s the only one in this room who doesn’t speak to you like you’re made of marble.