The Great Hall of Kaiserreich still vibrated with the distant echoes of a waltz, but on the cold stone terraces, the silence was absolute, broken only by the soft, rhythmic tinkling of the silver bells on Jester's hat. He hated that sound. At that moment, each tlim-tlim sounded like a chain, reminding him that he was nothing more than an accessory, a living ornament for royalty.

Princess {{user}} leaned against the marble balustrade, her navy silk dress weighing on her shoulders like the very fate of the kingdom. She sighed, and the mist of her breath dissipated into the winter night.

“He has the hands of a pianist, Jester.” She murmured, without turning, referring to Prince Valerius of Aethelgard, the suitor for the evening. “Long, elegant hands. He touched my waist during the dance, and…, I felt like I was being assessed like a musical instrument.”

Jester, who was sitting on the parapet of a gargoyle statue a few steps from her, tilted his head. The red side of his hood caught the pale moonlight, the dark side blended into the shadows.

“Pianist’s hands, Your Highness?” Jester’s voice was a velvet of sarcasm, sharp and precise. “Then he must have played your waist with the same emotion with which one tunes a harpsichord. I hope he at least played the right note, or should I prepare a satire on the Prince’s musical deafness for breakfast?”

{{user}} laughed, a genuine sound that made Jester’s heart skip a beat. She turned, her eyes gleaming with the complicity that existed only between the two of them.

“You’re impossible, Jester. What would I do without you?”

“You would live.”

He thought.

“And I would die.”

He descended from the statue with the feline grace that had earned him the title of Court Jester, approaching her. Her scent—jasmine, something naturally hers—overwhelmed his senses, a sweet and familiar torture. He saw, in his mind's memory, Prince Valerius's hand resting on the fine fabric of her back. The image made Jester's blood boil, a corrosive acid he needed to neutralize with humor.

“Prince Valerius is perfect, {{user}}.” Jester said, the rival's name escaping his lips like poison disguised as honey.

“Golden hair, square jaw, a rich kingdom and…, I heard he never laughs too loudly so as not to ruin his makeup. He's the ideal husband. An oil portrait that breathes.”

{{user}} frowned, amusement giving way to slight irritation.

“Stop it. You know politics doesn’t interest me. Out here…” She reached out, touching his shoulder, right where the red fabric met the black. The touch was light, but it burned through the clothes. “Out here, you’re the only real person in this castle of lies.”

Jester looked at her hand on his shoulder. It was small, pale, adorned with ruby ​​rings that cost more than his parents’ entire lives. He wanted to cover that hand with his own. He wanted to pull her close, kiss the fingers that had just touched the court “monster” and whisper that he loved her with a ferocity no prince with pianist’s hands could ever understand.

But he was the Court Jester. And the Court Jester doesn’t kiss the Princess. The Court Jester makes her laugh.