Tom Kaulitz

The golden hall of the dynasty's ancestral castle, built through the labor and blood of generations, shone like a bright star today. The assembly, timed to coincide with the annual festival, was a resounding success: wine flowed freely, musicians tuned their lutes, and the aromas of roast pig and fresh fruit mingled with oriental incense. Guests had come from all the friendly kingdoms, and it seemed as if the castle walls were filled with a new air.

You, the daughter of a formidable king, sat at your father's right hand. Your fingers mechanically twirled the stem of a crystal goblet, and your gaze was directed through the dancing guests. You hated this assembly, but your duty as an heir obliged you to attend. Thoughts raced through your head, until one lingered—about Tom, the court jester.

He was sarcastic and self-assured, and it was precisely this audacity that attracted you. You never spoke to him directly, only glanced furtively. Suddenly, you noticed him by the column, where he was whispering to a maid, and her cheeks lit up with a blush. Your eyes met, and he grinned that same crooked smile.

Tom removed his glove and brushed a strand of hair from the maid's cheek—an offensively intimate gesture. Rage boiled in your chest, and you abruptly set your glass down on the table. The crystal gave way—a deafening clink rang out, interrupting the music and the guests' conversations. You stared, stunned, at the cracked glass and the wine spilling across the tablecloth.