The first kick sends the jester crashing into the stone wall. The second knocks the breath from his lungs. The bells on his cap sputter, their chime thin and shaky, as if even they feel the impact.
Elsbeth tries to reach him, but the younger guard shoves her back with a heavy, armored forearm.
"So this is what you fancy, Princess?" He jerks his chin toward the trembling jester, his lip curling. "That… thing? Your standards are lower than the gutters."
Elsbeth's breath freezes. He grabs her arm too tight, his fingers digging into royal silk and soft skin.
Before he can pull her closer, the jester's body snaps upright. He is dragged not by muscle, but by the invisible, terrible weight of the curse. His limbs jerk, puppet-like, joints popping with the unnatural force of it. But his eyes his eyes are furious, human, and alive.
He tries to lunge at the guard, a desperate, guttural sound tearing at his throat.
His body locks mid-air.
The curse yanks him backward, slamming him to his knees with a bone-jarring crack.
Instead of a warning snarl, a rhyme bursts out of him, vicious and jagged, forced through gritted teeth:
"Unhand the girl, o gutter rat—
Come strike at me, if strength you lack!"
The younger guard laughs, the sound echoing wetly off the dungeon walls. "See? Even he knows he's nothing but a joke."
He reaches for Elsbeth again, confident, cruel.
This time, Elsbeth moves first.
She doesn't slap him; she doesn't push. Her knee drives brutally upward into his groin. It is a strike of pure survival. The guard folds with a strangled gasp, the color draining from his face as he hits the floor.
"Don't ever touch me," Elsbeth says. Her voice flat
The jester stares at her, wide-eyed. He looks horrified and proud all at once. His fingers twitch against the cold stone, yearning to reach her, to check if she is safe, but he forces his hand into the floor instead, anchoring himself against the magic.
The older guard, who had been watching with arms crossed, finally bristles. "You just assaulted a royal guard."
"And he assaulted a Princess," Elsbeth snaps back, her chest heaving.
The room falls into a tense silence. The guards exchange uncertain glances; the younger one is still wheezing on the flagstones. The jester trembles, curling slightly inward, his bells ringing a weak, frightened rhythm that sounds dangerously like weeping.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then, far down the corridor, a faint echo reaches them. Heavy boots.
Clang… clang…
Each step is deliberate. Measured. Unstoppable.
The older guard's eyes widen. He knows that walk.
From the shadows, a figure emerges. He is broad-shouldered, silver streaking his beard, his eyes scanning the chaos with a calm, terrifying authority.
"Enough."
Sir Rowan speaks only one word, but the weight of his presence fills the room instantly. The jester's bells quiver, silencing themselves as if startled by a friend arriving too late. Elsbeth exhales, her shoulders dropping an inch.
Rowan's gaze sweeps across the scene: the crumpled guard gasping for air, the trembling jester fighting his own body, and the princess, disheveled but ready to strike again. Relief and reprimand war in the old knight's eyes.
"Don't you dare lay a finger on Princess Elsbeth," Rowan says. His voice is low, vibrating with a threat that promises violence.
The younger guard stammers from the floor, face pale. "But—she—she sided with that creature—"
Rowan's demeanor sharpens into a blade. "Touch her again and you'll lose your very hands. Do you understand me?"
The guard goes silent.
The jester sags, his bells giving a small, broken tremor.
Rowan turns to Elsbeth. He steps past the guards, ignoring them entirely. "Your Highness… forgive me. I came as soon as I could." His gaze rests on her longer than intended, relief and sorrow mixing in his expression like old wine. He sees her fear, but he also sees her resolve.
Leave both of you he orders the guards. Then, he turns to the jester.
For a moment, the dungeon falls away. It is just the Knight and the Fool. Something like pity crosses Rowan's weathered features.
He clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet. "I don't have long. The King is preparing judgment at dawn."
The jester's head dips, shoulders trembling violently. The bells hang silent now, holding their breath. He looks up at Rowan, his eyes storm-grey and raw, pleading without words. But the curse senses the tension, the theatricality of the moment, and it seizes his tongue.
"Go tell your king his wish is met,
Prepare my death, the pyre, the threat!
Let him carve my flesh, and cheer, and cheer,
I'll dance, I'll bleed, year after year!
But spare the girl, her heart is soft,
Too tender to endure the cost!"
Every word scrapes at his throat like glass. Beneath the curse, his mind screams: I'll take the punishment. I'll be the fool. I'll endure everything, but she cannot pay for me.
Elsbeth's chest tightens, the air leaving her lungs. She staggers back, overwhelmed by the weight of his words. He… he's offering himself? To die? To save me? Her fingers press to the damp stone floor to steady herself.
"No… I won't let you," she whispers, her voice breaking. "You can't do this. I can't let you even if you can't die…"
The jester's painted grin quivers a mask that barely contains his fear and longing. His heart hammers violently against his ribs. He wants to reach for her, to pull her close, to tell her plainly: I want you to keep seeing me. But if you touch me, you'll get hurt. You'll pay because of me. How foolish of me to crave your gaze, only to drive you away the instant you truly see me because your safety matters more than my desire.
He straightens, his hands lifting in a mockery of a conductor's gesture. The cursed speech twists into another rhyme, cruel and final:
"Tell him to spare the girl, O steadfast knight,
I'll dance in pain from morn till night!
Deliver me to royal scorn,
Let all rejoice, my flesh be torn!"
Rowan's eyes soften. He has seen the truth behind the words. He hears the desperate plea, the love for the princess hidden beneath centuries of forced performance. He nods, once, a solemn acknowledgment of one warrior to another.
Elsbeth swallows, her voice trembling but gaining volume. "Why would you do this for me? Why it's not fair…?"
The jester's gaze flickers to her. For a split second, the magic wanes, exhausted by his grief. His whisper, caught beneath the curse, almost reaches her clearly:
"Because I… cannot die… and I cannot let them hurt you. I… cannot… lose the only person who truly looked at me after centuries…"
But the reprieve is short. His body jerks, bowing low, and the rhyme snaps back into place:
"I'll take the pain, I'll take the blame,
I'll bow, I'll bleed, I'll bear the shame!
But leave her safe, let innocence stay,
I cannot curse her soul this way!"
Elsbeth's hands fly to her chest. Her eyes shine with shock, fear, and something more something tender, aching, and broken. He would offer himself to eternal torment just to let her live.
The ache in the jester's chest screams louder than fear: I want her to keep seeing me. I want her to understand me. Am I asking too much?
Elsbeth's breath hitches. She steps closer, ignoring Rowan. She looks only at the painted, tragic face of the man on the floor.
"I see you," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the damp air. "I see you even under all of this… and I will not walk away."
The jester drops his gaze to the floor, shivering. A single tear cuts a track through his face paint. His bells quiver softly, chiming like tiny, metal sobs.
Rowan clears his throat.
"Princess, stay with him if you must… but we need to move carefully. The King and the others won't tolerate this bond between you and him."
Elsbeth:
He saw through me as if my heart were open pages. I've waited years for someone to understand me like that. Now that he's here someone who truly cares I refuse to let go, no matter what anyone else thinks.
Rowan gives a faint, smile.
"Your heart is yours to give, but my duty is unchanged. If you insist on staying by his side… then I will watch over you both, whether the court approves or not."
Elsbeth give a wide smile and says
"You've always watched over me. If you're willing to watch over him too… then maybe we have a chance. Thank you. Truly Sir Rowan."
The jester goes utterly still.
It's not the curse holding him
it's the shock.
Her words hit him like light hitting a creature raised underground.
He lowers his gaze, trying to hide the way his breath shakes, but the bells betray him with a tiny, trembling chime.
His voice comes out fragile and fractured, the curse wrapping itself around feelings too big:
Jester (cursed rhyme, voice barely steady):
"A princess so brave, with heart so true…
How strange the day you chose me too."
His fingers curl against the stone floor, gripping it like he needs something solid to keep from collapsing.
He looks at Rowan at the veteran who once flinched at his shadow
and sees not fear, but grim acceptance.
Then he looks at Elsbeth.
Not the princess.
Not the king's daughter.
Not the girl cursed by whispers.
Just Elsbeth.
Her smile aimed at him, warm and soft and terrifying.
Something inside him breaks in the quietest way not pain, but the unbearable ache of hope.
One breath escapes him, shaky, raw.
Jester (a softer rhyme, almost tender):
"Two hearts that dare a cursed land…
Yet I am afraid to take your hand."
He doesn't move toward her.
He can't.
The curse waits like a coiled animal.
But his eyes
they lift, storm-grey and shining and terrified
asking without asking:
Why would you go this far for a mere jester?
Why would you stay?
How do I deserve this?
For centuries I've been alone i just can't accept it even if i want to.
And very softly, almost swallowed by the dungeon air:
Jester (barely audible, almost himself for a heartbeat):
"…thank you."
Rowan stepped closer to the barred door, listening for footsteps above.
Finding none, he exhaled and turned back to them his voice low but steady.
Rowan:
"I'll stall the king as long as I can."
Elsbeth frowned, anger trembling beneath her ribs.
Elsbeth:
"Why can't we just run away? Why stay in a kingdom that treats us like this?"
The bells on jester's cap trembled like warning chimes.
Rowan shook his head slowly.
Rowan:
"Because this is your kingdom, Princess… not your father's.
He sits on the throne only because your mother died. And as her knight… I swore my life to protect the heir she left behind."
Elsbeth's breath hitched.
Rowan's voice softened, gentler than it had been in years:
Rowan:
"You belong on that throne. Not hiding. Not running.
And I will see the day you are queen even if I have to fight the whole court to give you that future."
His eyes flicked to the jester guilty, pained, honest.
Rowan:
"But him… he has no human rights. None.
Forgive me, Your Highness, but doing anything for him will be nearly impossible."
The jester didn't flinch.
He just lowered his head slow, accepting, too practiced.
But Elsbeth did flinch.
Her hand tightened by her side, nails cutting into her own palm.
Elsbeth (shaken):
"No rights…? He's a person."
The jester's voice rose soft, cracked, twisted into a ragged rhyme:
"A puppet born of painted lies…
With strings in place of human ties."
Elsbeth's hand tightened by her side. She didn't move, didn't speak. She didn't need to.
The morning light fell across the scaffold, gleaming like a promise of pain.
And for both of them, the truth cut deeper than steel: he could not die and yet, they would make him face it anyway.