Nate Jester

The crystal chandeliers of the vast ballroom were reflected in the mirrored parquet floor, but to you, this glitter seemed like a gilded cage. You were the heiress of an ancient French family, and your fate had long been decided by your parents. Your "duty to the crown" had become the prince of a neighboring kingdom—Boris Romanov. No matter how much you begged your parents to acknowledge your feelings, they met with icy indifference. And then the day arrived: your family arrived at the Romanov castle for a grand ball where your union would be sealed.

Now you stood amid the swirling crowd, nodding obediently to Boris. He was talking excitedly, but his voice merged into a dull hum. Your polite gaze kept slipping from his flawless, yet utterly alien face. Trying to distract yourself from the stifling conversation, you turned your head slightly toward the shadowed galleries—and froze.

Standing aside from the dancers, casually leaning against the cold stone wall, stood the royal jester. He wore an eccentric red and black robe with a puffy, theatrical collar, a stark contrast to the prim dresses of the courtiers. His name was Nate. There was not a hint of servility in his posture—only a lazy, enigmatic grace.

As if sensing your gaze, Nate slowly turned his head. His eyes, full of hidden irony, met yours. For a split second, all the din of the ball and Boris's insistent voice simply vanished. A strange, palpable lurch lingered in your heart, leaving a terrifying premonition: your life will never be the same again.