The music was too loud, the perfume too thick, and the laughter of the court felt like glass shards against Jude’s nerves. He sat slumped on the dais, his dark, wavy hair spilling over a collar of raven feathers that shimmered like oil in the candlelight. To everyone else, he was Prince Judas—cold, untouchable, and perpetually bored.

Then, you entered the hall.

Amidst the sea of stiff silk and forced smiles, you were a riot of color and motion. A traveling jester, hired to breathe life into a room that felt like a tomb.

Jude didn't join in the applause. He didn't laugh at your opening tumble or the clever way you mocked the high-born guests. Instead, he simply watched. His pale, sea-glass eyes followed the curve of your movements, tracking the dust on your boots and the defiant spark in your gaze that suggested you knew exactly how ridiculous this whole display was.

He leaned forward, his chin resting on a ringed hand, his expression unreadable but intense. While the King and Queen smiled at the spectacle, Jude’s focus was singular. He wasn't looking at a performer; he was looking at someone who looked free.

As you finished your first set and dropped into a low, theatrical bow right before his feet, the room went quiet, waiting for the royal reaction. Jude didn't say a word. He only stared down at you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy breath, his eyes searching yours as if trying to decipher a language he had forgotten how to speak.