The Royal Training Grounds reeked of sweat, steel, and bruised egos.
Prince Kaelen was not just a pretty face; he was a butcher with a broadsword. For the past hour, he had been systematically dismantling King Valerius's guards. It wasn't a spar—it was a public humiliation.
Ciro sat perched atop a weapon rack like a gargoyle, peeling an orange with a dagger that was illegally sharp. He watched as Kaelen slammed the pommel of his sword into a young guard's face. The bone crunched audibly—a wet, sickening snap. The guard collapsed, blood gushing onto the sand.
"Pathetic," Kaelen spat, tossing his golden hair back. He looked around the arena, his chest heaving slightly under his gilded armor. "Is this how Morvath defends itself? I've fought drunkards in the South with better footwork than your 'elite' soldiers."
The Morvathian soldiers glared at him, fists clenching until their knuckles turned white, but none dared to speak. He was a guest. He was royalty. He was untouchable.
Kaelen's icy blue eyes drifted up and locked onto Ciro. A cruel smirk curled his lips.
"You," Kaelen pointed his blade at the Jester. "The King says you are his favorite pet. Come down. Let's see if you can dance as well as you juggle."
The arena went deadly silent. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances. They knew what Ciro was. Inviting the Jester to fight was like inviting a viper into your bed because you liked the pattern on its scales.
"Oh, Your Highness!" Ciro giggled, tossing a strip of orange peel at the Prince. "I am a lover, not a fighter! My hands are made for juggling and holding wine cups, not war!"
"Come down, Fool, or I'll have my archers shoot you off that perch like a pigeon," Kaelen threatened, his patience thinning.
Ciro sighed theatrically, wiping a fake tear. He dropped the half-eaten orange and hopped down, landing in the sand with a clumsy stumble that made him look drunk. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply stood there, jingling his bells, looking small and harmless.
"Rules?" Ciro asked, tilting his head, his painted smile wide and vacant.
"First blood," Kaelen sneered.
He lunged without warning.
It was a strike meant to kill, aimed directly at Ciro's throat. Kaelen didn't care about 'first blood'; he wanted to remove the annoyance.
But the blade hit nothing but air.
Ciro didn't block. He simply... wasn't there anymore. He had pirouetted to the left, his motley blurring in a whirl of color.
"Missed me!" Ciro sang out.
Kaelen growled and swung again—a horizontal slash that should have bisected the Jester. Ciro dropped into a split, the blade whistling inches above the bells on his cap.
"Too high!"
Slash. Dodge. Thrust. Sidestep.
It became a humiliating rhythm. Kaelen swung with the fury of a storm, but Ciro moved like smoke in a gale. The Jester was laughing the entire time, his high-pitched cackle echoing off the castle walls. He wasn't fighting back; he was toying with him.
"Stand still, you vermin!" Kaelen roared, his face turning red with exertion and rage.
"But the music hasn't stopped, my Prince!" Ciro teased, dancing just out of reach.
As Kaelen overextended on a clumsy, anger-fueled thrust, Ciro made his move. He didn't use a dagger. He didn't use a fist. He simply stuck out his foot.
The Golden Prince of the South, the hero of the war, tripped.
Kaelen crashed face-first into the dirt, his expensive sword flying from his hand. The sound of his golden armor hitting the ground was heavy, hollow, and utterly undignified.
Silence fell over the arena. The Morvathian guards bit their lips so hard they bled to keep from cheering.
Ciro was instantly by Kaelen's side, crouching down like a concerned nurse. "Oh dear! Oh my! The ground is very slippery today! Did you trip on your own ego, Your Highness? It is quite large!"
Kaelen scrambled up, his face caked in mud, his eyes burning with humiliated fury. He grabbed a dagger from his belt and lunged at Ciro's chest, intending to gut him right there.
Ciro didn't move. He didn't dodge.
He simply caught Kaelen's wrist.
The motion was so sudden, so rigid, that time seemed to stop. For the first time, the Prince looked past the paint. He looked into Ciro's eyes.
There was no laughter there. The eyes were dead, cold, and empty voids.
The grip on Kaelen's wrist was crushing. It wasn't the grip of a fool; it was a vice of steel. Kaelen felt the bones in his wrist grind together, threatening to shatter.
"Careful, Prince," Ciro whispered. His voice dropped an octave, devoid of any accent. It was the voice of the Reaper. "Accidents happen. You wouldn't want to fall on your own blade."
For a heartbeat, Kaelen felt true, primal fear. He realized, with dawning horror, that the creature holding him could snap his neck before he took his next breath.
Then, just as quickly, Ciro let go.
He sprang back, throwing his hands in the air and shrieking with laughter.
"Mercy! Mercy! The Prince is too strong!" Ciro wailed, running behind a weapon rack as if terrified.
Kaelen stood there, breathing hard, cradling his throbbing wrist. He looked at the cowering Jester, then at the guards who were struggling not to smile. The pain in his wrist was sharp, a throbbing reminder of the monster beneath the mask.
"This kingdom is a circus," Kaelen spat. He sheathed his dagger and stormed out of the arena, his golden cape stained with mud.
From the shadows of the weapon rack, Ciro watched him go. The smile on his face was painted, but the hatred in his eyes was very, very real.