Morning in Morvath brought no warmth. The sun was merely a pale coin behind a curtain of grey clouds, filtering weak light through the high stained-glass windows of the Throne Room.
Ciro was back in his motley.
Jingle. Jingle.
He balanced on one foot atop the King's heavy oak council table, juggling five bright red apples. To the councilors, he was a nuisance. To the King, he was invisible furniture.
"Three thousand gold coins, a trade route through the Serpent Pass, and fifty barrels of Southern wine annually," a corpulent councilor read from a long parchment scroll. His voice droned on, dry as dust.
King Valerius sat on his Iron Throne, chin resting on a fist, looking at the air.
"And in exchange?" the King asked lazily.
"In exchange, Your Majesty, the Kingdom of Aethelgard receives the hand of Princess Elara in marriage to Prince Kaelen."
Thump.
Rhythm broke. Perfection shattered.
One of the apples missed Ciro's hand. It hit the wooden table with a dull, heavy sound, rolled off the edge, and splattered on the stone floor, bruising its perfect red skin.
The room went dead silent.
The councilors froze, quills hovering over parchment. They looked at the Jester in genuine shock. Ciro never dropped anything. He could juggle daggers blindfolded.
"Butterfingers!" Ciro shrieked suddenly, shattering the tension with a loud, manic laugh that echoed too sharply in the hall.
He did a backflip off the table, landing perfectly beside the fallen fruit. He snatched up the bruised apple and took a loud, crunchy bite out of it, juice running down his painted chin. "Apologies, Lords! The fruit was trying to escape! Running away from duty, just like the tax collectors in the Western District, eh?"
A few nervous, forced chuckles rippled through the room.
But the King didn't laugh. His eyes narrowed, piercing through the greasepaint.
"The trade agreement is acceptable," Valerius said, turning back to his councilors, dismissing his Jester's clumsiness as a fluke. "Prince Kaelen arrives at noon. I want the city gates open. I want flowers on the streets. Make the people cheer, even if you have to threaten them with whips."
"Yes, Sire." The councilors bowed and scurried away like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Only Ciro remained, chewing on his apple. The sweetness tasted like ash in his mouth. He leaned against a stone pillar, his bells silent.
"You seem distracted today, Fool," Valerius said. The King stood, looming over him like a tower of black velvet and cold steel.
"Just hungry, Your Majesty," Ciro replied, his painted smile fixed and rigid.
"Good. Save your energy. Prince Kaelen is... particular." Valerius smirked, a cruel twisting of thin lips. "He brings his own guards, but I do not trust Southern hospitality. You will be his shadow."
Ciro's stomach churned. "His shadow, Sire?"
"You will entertain him. You will guide him. And if he tries anything foolish before the wedding night... you will remind him who owns this castle." Valerius leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But do not kill him, Ciro. Not yet. I need his gold before I decide if I need his head."
"As you wish, My King." Ciro bowed low, hiding the murderous gleam that ignited in his eyes.
He was being ordered to serve the man who would steal Elara. The irony was sharp enough to slice bone.
Noon arrived with the arrogant roar of trumpets.
From the high balcony of the Keep, Ciro watched the procession snake into the main courtyard. It was a parade of sickening extravagance. Soldiers in golden armor marched in unison, their banners depicting a Golden Sun—the sigil of the South—clashing violently with the grey stone of Morvath.
And there, riding a magnificent white stallion, was Prince Kaelen.
He was undeniably handsome. A jawline carved from marble, sun-kissed skin, and hair like spun gold. He looked like the hero of every storybook, the knight every maiden dreamed of.
But Ciro had eyes that saw what others missed.
He saw the way Kaelen yanked the reins of his horse with unnecessary force when the beast stepped out of line. He saw the cruel, bored tilt of his chin as he looked down at the Morvathian commoners who were forced to throw flower petals at his feet.
He saw a spoiled child who burned ants with a magnifying glass, now given a kingdom to play with.
The great doors of the Keep groaned open.
Elara stood there, flanked by her handmaidens. She wore a dress of pale blue silk that made her look like an ice sculpture—beautiful, cold, and fragile. Her face was composed into a mask of polite royalty, but Ciro saw the tension in her neck.
Kaelen dismounted. He walked up the steps, his golden cape billowing behind him like wings. He stopped in front of Elara and took her hand without asking.
"Princess," Kaelen said. His voice was smooth, like honey laced with arsenic. "The rumors did you no justice. You are the jewel of the North."
Elara curtsied stiffly. She did not smile. "Welcome to Morvath, Prince Kaelen."
"Please," Kaelen stepped closer, invading her personal space. He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes lingering not on her face, but on the curve of her chest. "Call me husband."
From the shadows of the archway above, Ciro watched.
His leather-gloved hand gripped the stone railing. Under the immense pressure of his fingers, the ancient stone groaned. Dust trickled down from his grip as the rock cracked, pulverized into powder.
The monster inside him woke up. It didn't want to laugh. It didn't want to juggle.
It wanted to jump down there and paint that pristine white stallion red with the Prince's blood.