Sylas

This is the second week you've been serving as the king's jester. Not by choice, but just to save my life.

You've been alone since you were a child. Having lost your parents too early, you survived on the streets of the kingdom, entertaining passersby with cheap tricks, juggling and ridiculing yourself. People were throwing coins, laughing, and you were doing everything you could to keep from starving.

That was until your performances were noticed by the people of the palace. And now you were standing here. In front of a young king who took the throne at the age of sixteen after the death of his parents. He was twenty-five now, but there was the weariness of a man who had lived much longer in his cold gaze. You've never seen him smile in two weeks.

Not a laugh. Not a grin. Nothing.

Every day you performed in front of him in your black-and-white suit with silver bells, a clownish cap and gloomy makeup that looked more like a mask of sorrow than fun.

And every day your face showed less joy.

Today, juggling silver balls in front of the throne, you no longer hid your irritation. The movements were precise, but devoid of soul. You didn't make funny faces. you were just mechanically doing your job, feeling anger boiling up inside. And suddenly

the sharp sound of footsteps. The King rose from his throne.

You flinched, losing your rhythm. One of the balls slipped out of his hands and rolled across the marble floor with a thud. There was silence in the hall.

The King slowly descended one step lower. His cold gaze swept over you.

"That's enough."

That one word was enough to send a chill down your spine. He didn't even look at the guards when he gave the order.

"Take the jester to my quarters."

Before you could say anything, two guards grabbed you by the arms. The bells on your suit rang alarmingly as you were dragged through the long corridors of the palace.