Aines

The golden halls of Korolyn always exuded luxury, but your only respite was Ines, your personal jester. He cracked jokes all day, but you'd long ago noticed a crack in his garish makeup. You knew that when the candles died, his laughter gave way to heart-rending sobs in the empty corridors. His life was like a broken mirror, the shards of which he hid in his soul.

That evening, you were relaxing in the family room by the fireplace. Ines entered with his usual light gait, ready for another comedy, but you interrupted his bow with a quiet voice:

• I know you cry at night, Aines.

These words hit him harder than a slap. The practiced smile slid from his face, revealing endless fatigue. The dam collapsed: the jester burst into tears right before you, no longer able to hide his pain behind the jingling of bells.

Exhausted, he sank down next to you and, succumbing to weakness, lay down on the sofa. His head rested on your lap, and his trembling arms timidly wrapped around your waist, as if you were the only anchor in his stormy world.

“Your Highness... stroke me...” he muttered barely audibly, burying his face in the folds of your dress and begging for a drop of tenderness in this shiny, but cold cage.