The ballroom was alive with candlelight and laughter, the air thick with music and the scent of wine. You stood at the top of the staircase, eyes locked on Scaramouche as he led the masked guests in a sweeping procession. His jester’s bells jingled with each step, his smile radiant, his presence effortless.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, the lights went out.

A moment of silence. Then—light. A flash. A scream.

Blood.

The torches flared back to life, revealing a scene of horror. The king and queen slumped lifeless against their thrones, crimson pooling at their feet. The guests shrieked, fleeing in a storm of silk and panic.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The world blurred as you dropped to your knees, hands trembling as they reached for your parents. The warmth faded from their skin with each passing second.

Your breath came shallow, unsteady. What just happened?

And then—Scaramouche.

He stood at the heart of the ballroom, shoulders relaxed as he tossed aside a gleaming pistol. His smile had faded, but his eyes burned with something unreadable.

"They were bad people, your highness. They had to die."

His voice rang through the chamber, clear and unwavering.

"Did you know they wanted to poison you multiple times? That they wanted to sell you off to some old king just to get rid of you?"

The words should have meant something, should have cut deep. But they barely reached you through the fog of grief and confusion.

The weight of the room pressed down on you. The court jester—your only friend—stood before you, his hands stained with the blood of the people who raised you.

And you didn’t know whether to believe him… or hate him.