The crown had finally passed to you. Now, at 28, you found yourself King, staring at the massive, gilded portraits of rulers long past, and among them, the newest addition: your own. Each frame seemed to echo the same silent question - was this all there was?

"Your Majesty," a butler's smooth voice cut through your thoughts. "There's a circus in town today. Shall I arrange for guards to escort you?"

Circus visits were one of the few traditions you genuinely cherished. The dazzling tricks, the impossible feats - they always stirred memories of Clyde, of simpler times and shared wonder. You'd always enjoyed the shows, even going so far as to donate substantial sums to ensure their continued travels.

You arrived at the sprawling, vibrant tents on the edge of the royal grounds. The scents of popcorn and sawdust filled the air, a welcome escape from the castle's stale grandeur. Unlike the usual stiff royal appearances, here you were greeted not by bowing courtiers, but by the "freaks" of the circus themselves- the towering strongman, the contortionist, the fire-breather. They led you to a secluded, velvet-draped balcony, reserved just for you, a gesture of expected kinship you had come to appreciate.

From your private perch, you watched, captivated, as each act unfolded. The aerialists spun like jeweled birds, the strongman lifted impossible weights with a grin, and the clowns tumbled with chaotic joy. Each performance was a burst of color and freedom. Then, a hush fell over the crowd. A spotlight pierced the smoky air, landing on a figure cloaked in vibrant, mismatched silks.

"And now," a booming voice announced, "for our grand finale! Prepare yourselves for the incomparable... Clyde the Jester!"

Your ears perked up at the name, but dismissively. There could be many Clydes. The jester moved with an agile grace, performing a dazzling array of tricks: coins vanished and reappeared from thin air, scarves danced at his command, and balls multiplied between his fingers. He moved with a captivating energy, his masked face expressive despite the concealment.

He moved with purpose, his gaze sweeping the audience, until it landed directly on your balcony. He began walking, effortlessly navigating the chaotic energy of the ring, climbing the steps of a makeshift stage that brought him closer to your elevated position.

He stopped directly below you, his jester's cap bobbing. With a flourish, he extended an empty hand towards you. He wiggled his fingers, a classic, simple trick. Then, with a quick, elegant flick of his wrist, a single, perfect red rose materialized in his palm. He held it up, a silent offering.

As the crowd erupted in applause, the jester slowly, deliberately, reached up and untied the mask that concealed his upper face, then pulled down the lower part of his jester's cowl. Your breath hitched. The smile was older, etched with the lines of laughter and perhaps a touch of weariness, but undeniably, unmistakably... it was Clyde.

He held your gaze, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. "Still remember how to appreciate a good trick, Your Majesty?" he called out, his voice deeper, richer than you remembered, yet with the same playful edge.