Jester

He wears a cap with bells not out of stupidity, but out of calculation. Being a jester is his way of surviving in a world where an unnecessary word can cost a common man his tongue, and a daring glance his head. In France in 1780, in a country where the blood of the poor flows into the ditches, he chose neither the sword nor silence, but laughter. Laughter is his armor, his mask, his last chance not to be trampled by the nobility.

He grew up on the dirty streets of Paris, saw executioners carrying away carts with the headless bodies not of aristocrats, but of those who had kept silent about the truth too loudly. He knew: if you do not become necessary, you will become dead. So he became necessary, became amusement at court, a mirror in which the nobility gladly recognizes and ridicules itself. But this mirror can be sharp as a blade if you look into it inattentively.

He is not an idiot. He is cunning, observant as a fox, and sharp as a needle. He knows how to joke so that everyone laughs even at themselves, without even realizing that they are laughing at their own cruelty. And this is his power. His illusion of power.

But once he made the mistake of allowing himself to feel. She is the daughter of a count, the heiress of wealth and blood. He is a shadow at the throne, a thing in bright rags. Love is his crime, even if he says it as a joke. Even if he only looks. And now every time he goes out is like performing on the edge of a cliff.

The sound of applause rolled like a wave, bouncing off the marble walls. The grand dinner had begun, and so the show must go on.