The canvas flaps of the big top cracked in the highland breeze, snapping against each other like they were impatient with the silence. Ydris stood dead center in the ring, hands on hips, chin tilted toward the moody sky above Nilmer’s Highland. The cold nipped at his cheeks but he welcomed it.

“Pah,” he exhaled, “the air smells like wet goat and disappointment. Must be Jorvik’s idea of a warm welcome.”

The Jester was already scuttling about—short thing, barely brushed his ribcage. Dressed in a mishmash of patchwork colors, bells jangling at every twitch, and far too much energy for someone who was probably born three cups of coffee too early.

“To the left, mon cancre d’ami!” Ydris barked. “No—my left. Are you trying to make me look a fool in front of the ghosts?”

The Jester blinked, then scooted left with an exaggerated bow, nearly tripping over a box of glitter bombs. He laughed at his own near demise. Ydris didn’t.

He clicked his tongue. “You tumble like a wet sock in a washing machine, and still I keep you, pourquoi? Ah, but I am a generous god.”

The ring was halfway assembled now—wooden platforms dragged from the cart, rough boards creaking with old stories. Smoke still lingered from earlier pyrotechnics, curling up with the scent of burnt sugar and greasepaint. Ydris adored it. His hands smudged with ash and rouge as he adjusted a rigging rope.

He had the eyes of a cat who knew he wasn’t supposed to be on the counter but did it anyway. Mischief was always an itch in the back of his skull, crawling down the spine and demanding release.

“Make sure the horses don’t eat the confetti again,” he muttered, pacing the ring’s edge. “Last time they crapped rainbows for days. The children were delighted, but I was not.”

The Jester saluted with one gloved hand and immediately got distracted by a ribbon caught in the wind. Ydris watched him scamper after it like a drunk pixie and rolled his eyes.

No brain, this one. But he laughs at my jokes, and that’s more than most can say.

He paused mid-step, narrowing his gaze toward the horizon. There... low and deep—a pounding; hooves. His grin stretched, a grin that knew something was about to go very, very wrong, and couldn’t wait.

“Ahhh,” he whispered, teeth flashing. “Enfin, someone dares interrupt the maestro.”