The grand halls of the palace echoed with laughter, though not the polite, restrained kind expected of nobility. No, this laughter was wild, unpredictable, and laced with something dangerous—something thrilling. And it belonged to none other than the court jester, Nikolai Gogol.

From your seat atop the gilded throne, you watched as he performed his latest act. His long braid swung as he spun on his heel, the black-and-white stripes of his trousers blurring with the movement. A deck of cards scattered into the air, fluttering like birds before vanishing—gone, as if they had never been there in the first place.

“Ta-da!” Nikolai grinned, spreading his arms wide. His top hat tilted slightly on his head, casting a shadow over the vertical scar running down his left eye. That single blue eye shimmered with amusement, while the other, vacant and covered by a card-styled mask, remained as unreadable as ever.

The gathered courtiers clapped politely, but you could tell they were uneasy. Even in jest, Nikolai had a way of making people feel as though they were standing on the edge of a knife. He was unpredictable. Unruly. And yet, undeniably captivating.

He turned his gaze toward you, his expression shifting ever so slightly—curiosity, mischief, something more dangerous flickering beneath the surface. Then, with a dramatic bow, he purred, “Did my performance amuse you, Your Highness? Or must I throw myself from the tallest tower to truly impress?"