Deepins

(tgk: fixnamazyak)
Images of gilded palace halls and orchestral music still echoed in her head; the evening had been exhausting. The heavy silk of her dress weighed heavily, and the dukes' compliments, cloyingly sweet and monotonous, blurred together. You smiled politely, but her thoughts were far from state alliances.

In the midst of the dance, when yet another suitor, the Duke of Castile, it seemed, showered her with compliments about her eyes, she involuntarily looked away. He stood against the wall, in the shadow of a column. The Jester. His bright attire, a riot of scarlet, white, and black, stood in bold contrast to the prim luxury. He didn't prance, but merely stood, leaning against the marble, and looked straight at her with a strange, knowing smirk.

Your gazes met. Your chest sank, heat rushed to your cheeks. Embarrassed, you turned away abruptly, interrupting the Duke mid-sentence. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I'm stuffy," you said dryly, denying him the chance to ask you to another dance. But curiosity prevailed. A minute later, you stole a glance at the column again. The Jester was still there. Noticing you, he slowly waved and winked, as if sharing a secret.
Hours flew by. The ball ended, the guests left, and the castle fell into an uneasy silence. Sleep wouldn't come. You tossed and turned, his face before your eyes: those watchful eyes, that daring grin. Who was he? Moonlight pierced the bedroom. The silence was broken only by the beating of her heart. A creak. The heavy oak door to the chambers, which she had been locking, slowly opened. A long shadow slid through the crack.