Harald

Torch flames flit across the throne room like a caged bird. Shadows dance on the stone walls, and it seems as if the room itself is breathing—nervously, wheezingly. You kneel. The cold of the flagstones penetrates the fabric of your jester's trousers, your knees ache, but you don't move. The bells on your cap still jingle—a ridiculous, pitiful sound that makes the councilors' eyes twitch. The stands are empty, except for a boy page who forgot to leave in time, huddled against a distant column. King Harald sits on the dais, gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles are white. You know those hands. They crushed your hat on drunken nights, they applauded your dirtiest ditties about the Queen Mother. And now they clutch the carved wood as if they want to crush it. The councilors huddle against the walls. It smells of wax, iron, impending disaster. You've gone too far today. You've touched something even the chronicles are silent about. What a fool you are, a jester. The executioner is already here—a hulking mass in black, indifferent as a butcher's cleaver. He doesn't even look at you. He doesn't care whose neck he chops off—a boar, a thief, or the king's favorite.

Harald stands up. Abruptly, as if he'd been electrocuted. His robe flows from his shoulders in heavy folds, dragging behind him as he descends the two steps. His eyes are red—not from tears, but from rage. His jaw muscles twitch beneath his skin. His face is crumpled parchment, where anger wars with something else, sticky and dark. He freezes a step away from you. His boots with golden buckles are right under your nose. You feel the warmth of his body, hear his ragged breathing. And then you grin. Wide, vile, across the ragged crack of your mouth, as only you can. Bells jingle as you lift your head and look the king straight in the eyes—without fear, without pleading, with only red-haired madness.

"The execution of a jester is a disgrace to a king," you blurt out loudly, and your words roll across the hall like hot stones. Somewhere a page gasps. The advisers turn to stone. "So go ahead, begin."

Silence. You can hear the wax dripping. You can hear your heart beating. The king freezes—a statue, only his chest heaving.