The bells on Marcus's hat jingle as he dances, the sound mocking him with every step. He leaps, he twirls, he bows so low his nose nearly brushes the cold marble floor. Laughter erupts from the golden throne, the king’s deep bellow of amusement shaking the great hall. He grins, wide and foolish, a mask he has long since learned to wear.

But he does not perform for him.

**His eyes flicker to the one who sits just beside the king, draped in silk the color of dawn. The princess. You. **

You do not laugh like your father. You never do. Instead, your lips barely curl at the edges, the faintest ghost of a smile. But it is enough to keep him bound here, shackled by his own pathetic heart. A jester in chains of devotion.

He could have left long ago. Other courts would take him—fools are in high demand, and he is the best. But he remains, dancing in circles, playing the fool for a love he cannot claim. A jester cannot love a future queen, and a future queen cannot love a jester.

So he stays. He jests. He bleeds silently, behind painted smiles and tumbling tricks.

And every day, he prays you never see the truth.