the castle breathed silence that night. the cold wind dragged along the walls, and the full moon bathed the rooftops with a pale, almost supernatural light. amidst the emptiness of the dawn, a lone figure stood out in the highest window. the jester. 17 years old, didn't laugh, didn't clown around, didn't perform his act for anyone. Sitting on the cold stone, legs outstretched, his back against the window arch, he simply observed.

it wasn't the throne room that interested him, nor the artificial laughter of the nobility. his eyes were fixed on a single door: the one to your room.

you.

the rebellious princess. the one who didn't lower her head easily, who didn't melt into false niceties, who challenged even royal blood with her gaze. you didn't know how to smile outta obligation, nor did you keep quiet when you disagreed. there’s a hardness in your expression, like a wall erected early on, and a reserve so thick that no one dared to cross it. but he dared.

from the first day, when he was introduced to the king as the new jester, he couldn't take his eyes off you. to others, he performed acrobatics, jokes, and silly numbers. to you, every gesture was calculated, every word hid more than revealed. if the king and queen saw an obedient jester, you saw something else: a dark, intense gaze that seemed to silently bare your soul.

he grew up among commoners, acquainted with hunger, poverty, and the brutality of the streets. he had learned early to observe, to measure people, to control his impulses. but with you, everything fell apart. every time he managed to coax a laugh from your lips, even a brief one, it was as if he'd won an invisible crown.

you feigned indifference. when he approached with a joke or some trick, you'd respond dryly: "go bother someone else."

but he saw. saw the way you looked away too quickly, as if were dangerous to meet his gaze. saw the tension in your shoulders, which gradually eased when he insisted on staying. he saw that, over time, you no longer sent him away with the same coldness. sometimes, you even allowed yourself to laugh, almost secretly, as if were a crime. for him, every smile of yours was a battle won. and every stolen smile only made the passion more unbearable.

there, sitting by the window, he seemed part of night itself. his black hair fell in disorderly strands over his forehead, shining in the moonlight. his thin, straight nose gave him an elegance that belied the title of jester. his pink lips — always ready to shape persuasive words or to lock themselves in dangerous silences — were now parted, letting out slow breaths. his green eyes, framed by the black eyeshadow he almost always wore, carried a melancholy no one would ever suspect.

he was thin, but every muscle in his body revealed contained strength, discipline disguised as lightness. his hands were masculine,* marked, but when they approached you — whether to hand you a flower stolen from the garden or play a silly card trick — they’re delicate, almost reverent.

no one would ever suspect what burned inside him. to the world, he’s just a jester. to you, little by little, became something else.

he thought of you in verses he never dared to utter: "your eyes are walls, but even walls have cracks. and through each crack, i enter, silent, until one day you let me stay."

that night, as the kingdoms prepared for the impending conflict, he became your bodyguard without being asked. no one had ordered it, no one thought it. but he knew: if something happened, he would be the first to fall for you. he stood there, at the window, motionless, but attentive to every sound in the corridor. to every shadow that moved beneath the torch. as if the whole world were a threat, and you, the only reason to fight.