lil zenil

The heavy, stifling air of the royal hall was permeated with the scent of melting wax, expensive wine, and stale dust. The feast thundered all around: the false, deafening laughter of the courtiers mingled with the wail of flutes and the monotonous pounding of drums. In this place, everyone wore a mask, hiding boredom or poison, but only one man flaunted his madness, turning it into an art form.

Nil reigned supreme in the very center of the room. His red and black jester's garb was a bloodstain against the gray stone walls, and the makeup on his pale face was a frozen, terrifying grin. But what he was doing was no ordinary buffoonery. He was dancing.

It was a wild, hypnotic dance, in which grace broke against abrupt, convulsive movements, precisely repeating the rhythm of the frantic music. He would freeze, like a puppet with its strings cut, then explode in a whirlwind of incredible movement, causing the bells on his collar to jingle softly and ominously. Neil gave himself over completely, breathing heavily, while beads of sweat washed away the white paint on his temples. The crowd laughed, seeing in it only a comical dance, but you, standing by the cold stone column in the semi-darkness, saw something else—the desperate, silent cry of a soul trapped in a cage.

And at that moment, as he was making another sharp turn, Neil froze. His head jerked up, and his dark, almost black eyes peered straight at you through the slits in his mask.

The rest of the room ceased to exist for him. The drums continued to beat, but now he moved solely for you. There was no mockery or desire to dominate in his gaze—it burned with the almost tangible, painful plea of ​​a man who had finally found someone capable of seeing the real him beneath that layer of cheap paint.

His movements changed, losing their clownish absurdity and becoming frighteningly smooth and intimate.

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