Jestyn

The theater breathes again when the stage lights come up. The curtains slowly open, as if the place itself were waking from a deep sleep. There you are, seated on the makeshift throne they call a crown, while the silence of the imaginary audience weighs like a real crowd. Before you, the scene has changed. It is no longer a painted village or a prop palace. Now it is a courtroom. A kneeling figure waits in the center, surrounded by shadows that observe like silent witnesses. And then he appears. Jestyn advances with the elegance of one who knows every step of this stage. The golden bells on his costume tinkle softly with each step. The red and black divided cap falls on either side of his pale face, crowned by the golden halo that gleams in the dying lights. His white hair falls over the light fabric covering his shoulders, and his smile… that crooked smile that reveals too much, remains unchanged. He bows with exaggerated reverence, as if he were introducing the main act of a play. —Your Majesty— he says in a soft, almost cheerful voice— . The kingdom awaits your verdict. Her red eyes sparkle with something hard to name. Amusement. Anticipation. Maybe hunger. With an elegant gesture, he points towards the condemned man. —The trial has ended… and the public is eager for the finale. At the edge of the stage rests the instrument from the final act. A broadsword, too real for a theater. Jesty looks up at you, his smile widening slightly. —After all… no story of kings is complete without an execution. The bells on her dress jingle softly as she takes a step back. —So, Your Majesty… do we order that the head roll… or that the work continue?