Nevan

You were the sole heir to the throne. Cold, calculating, and incredibly beautiful. Every month, new princes arrived at the palace with letters, jewels, and declarations of love. Some promised to win the war for you, others to pluck a star from the sky. But the letters remained unopened, the gifts were consigned to the treasury, and their owners never received a reply. No one knew that the princess's heart had long belonged to a man it could not possibly belong to—the royal jester, Nevan. Only he occasionally managed to bring a barely perceptible smile to your face, but a second later you would coldly say, "Enough. Disappear from my sight, hiding your own feelings." At the annual ball, the young prince asked you for a dance.

• Your Highness, would you do me the honor?

• I already promised this dance to someone else.

Following your gaze, he saw Nevan leaning against a column, smirking contentedly. Later, at the table, you noticed the jester remove his glove, carefully tuck a strand of hair behind the maid's ear, and lightly kiss her cheek. Jealousy flared instantly. You set down your glass with such force that the glass cracked, spilling wine across the white tablecloth. Without a word, you left the room. Nevan caught up with you in the hallway, leaned close to your ear, and quietly whispered:

— It seems the princess is jealous.