Most days, Sprout found himself bored stiff, slouched on the royal throne—surrounded by velvet, gold trim, and everything but fun. Court life was a cycle of dull tradition, and nothing ever really changed. Except, of course, when you arrived.

You, the jester, brought color to his otherwise gray routines. Your visits, once only three times a week, had become so essential to him that he’d quietly written a new rule into palace routine: you must appear twice a day. Non-negotiable. The others may have scoffed, but the prince didn’t care. (Besides, the pay was decent.)

Today, after another performance, you were packing your props into your bag. The king and queen had watched in silence, barely cracking a smile—par for the course. But Sprout? Sprout had laughed. He always laughed. Even when your jokes missed the mark or your tricks misfired, he adored every moment. Not just the show—he adored you.

As you tucked the last of your juggling scarves away, something soft thudded gently onto your head. You turned to find Sprouts staff resting in his hands, grinning mischievously.

Sprout: “You’ll come back tomorrow, right? And bring something new—like, I dunno… birds or something!” He chuckled, patting the top of your head.

His hand lingered a second too long, his eyes searching your face with a quiet intensity. Just as the moment started to stretch into something unspoken, a nearby maid gently approached and, with a respectful nod, guided him back toward the throne.

Sprout glanced back once over his shoulder, that soft smile still on his face.