Dawn breaks over the Kingdom of Liveria, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold.
High above the waking world, a crow catches the morning thermal. It glides with effortless grace, its obsidian eyes acting as a lens for the world below.
From this height, Liveria is a sprawling labyrinth of grey stone and red clay roofs.
To the west, the Great Market is already teeming a chaotic mosaic of colorful tents where merchants from the coast sell wine and roasted nuts.
To the east, the Royal Palace sits atop the highest hill, a fortress of white marble and gold spires, detached and looming over the common folk like a god.
Separating them is the Long Road a cobblestone vein cutting through the heart of the city, leading straight to the Execution Plaza.
The crow lands on the Northern Tower and gives out a sad, rasping caw.
Inside the Tower
Deep inside, iron hinges scream.
The guards enter without ceremony, shackles already in their fists.
The jester doesn't look up as they clamp cold metal around his wrists he knows this moment has come.
Elsbeth stands nearby holding the book, breath trembling, hand clenched until her nails bite her own skin.
Guard:
"On your feet, freak."
A boot slams into his ribs.
He stumbles forward, bells chiming a thin, hollow jangle.
Elsbeth darts after him.
Elsbeth (voice breaking):
"Stop—don't hurt him—let him go! Where's Sir Rowan?"
He looks back at her and smiles soft, lopsided, meant only for her.
The curse drags a rhyme from his throat, thin as a bleeding thread:
"A monster walks where angels stay…
Be glad you're safe—be far, far away…"
Elsbeth flinches.
But she doesn't stop following.
The guards shove him toward the door.
Cold morning air knifes across his skin.
He staggers, chains rattling like dying breath.
A young guard blocks Elsbeth with his spear.
Guard:
"Back, Highness. The King's orders."
She pushes against the wood and steel, refusing to let him go.
But the Jester stops.
He turns slightly, the painted smile stark against the gloom.
He looks relieved.
She is safe, he thinks. They are taking me, not her.
He catches her eyes and gives a tiny nod a silent goodbye.
Then the guards shove him forward.
He disappears down the tower steps.
Elsbeth is forced out a side exit.
Elsbeth (whispering):
"Please… let me go with him."
No one answers.
A black-and-gold carriage waits. They push her inside despite her protests.
She is forced inside. The door slams shut like the lid of a coffin.
The carriage lurches away from the tower, carrying her toward the palace.
Above, the crow takes flight, chasing the noise.
The Long Road
Today, the road is choked with thousands of bodies.
The crow banks left, soaring over slate rooftops.
Noise rises like heat: a roar of excitement.
People hang from windows, waving handkerchiefs.
Children sit on shoulders, pointing.
It looks like a coronation.
It looks like a festival.
But the center of celebration is not a float.
It is a stumbling figure in torn motley.
The crow dips lower, landing on the gnarled branch of an ancient oak overlooking the street.
Below, the Jester walks.
He drags his chains; iron links spark against the cobblestones.
The crowd jeers, throwing rotten apples and stale crusts.
He does not dodge.
He cannot.
A guard steps forward, whip creaking.
Crack.
The sound cuts through the roar.
The lash bites deep, slicing cloth and skin.
Blood sprays bright against the stones.
The crowd cheers.
And then—
the unnatural.
The wound closes.
Flesh knits.
The pain remains.
The Jester stumbles, gasping, and the curse twists his scream into rhyme:
"Strike the flesh and watch it mend,
For her safety, I will bend!
Break the bone and spill the wine,
The sin is yours, the pain is mine!"
The humans laugh.
The crow freezes.
It has seen wolves kill.
It has seen storms tear trees apart.
But it has never seen a pack cheer at the suffering of its own kind.
It stares at the Jester the only creature in the street who is not a monster.
A tear forms in its dark eye.
Silver. Heavy.
It falls.
Plip.
Unnoticed by the mob.
The crow gives a ragged, mournful caw and lifts into the air again, fleeing the cruelty.
It flies toward the Palace gates.
The carriage finally stops.
Rowan opens the door, helmet tucked under his arm, face pale.
Elsbeth stares up at him,
eyes red, lashes wet, breath unsteady.
He can't meet her gaze.
Rowan (hoarse):
"Forgive me… Your Highness.
I couldn't protect him.
The council overruled me.
Every lord in court demanded the execution."
Elsbeth rises to her feet, voice trembling but iron at its core:
Elsbeth:
"Take me to the execution grounds.
I will not let them hurt him."
Rowan exhales shakily.
Rowan:
"As you command."
Meanwhile At The Execution Grounds:
The Jester stumbles forward, chains clinking, the whip cutting again and again. His flesh mends before their eyes, the curse weaving rhymes from pain:
Jester (cursed rhyme, voice ragged but strong):
"My laughter rings, yet joy is banned,
A painted fool, with empty hands.
Chains may bind, but none can see,
The grief I wear so endlessly.
Each breath I take, a bitter jest,
A cursed soul that cannot rest."
A tall dais has been raised at the center of the plaza dark oak, polished steel restraints gleaming in the dawn light.
Soldiers line the stage. Citizens pack every inch of the square.
And now…
The King arrives.
He enters from the east gate on horseback, surrounded by armored knights and fawning attendants. His cloak trails behind him like a shadow. His expression is sharp, thunder carved into a human face.
He climbs the steps of the dais and turns toward the crowd, voice booming:
King:
"This cursed creature dared twist the princess's mind dared make her disobey her own king."
A ripple of outrage passes through the crowd.
King:
"He sought to turn the court against me.
To overthrow the kingdom through wicked sorcery and deceit."
His glare fixes on the Jester, who trembles where he stands, half-smiling.
King (cold):
"For a fool who cannot die…
we shall hang him first—
and then behead him."
Cheers erupt.
Drums thunder.
The Executioner steps forward.
The Jester lifts his face toward the rising sun, knowing it cannot kill him.
Which is worst.
The rope snaps taut. The Jester's body jerks once, then hangs limp beneath the gallows, bells silent on his ruined cap. A low wind rolls across the square and carries the creak of hemp to every ear.
The king sits rigid on the royal dais, knuckles white on the arms of his chair.
Then comes the scream.
Elsbeth tears free of Rowan's grip at the edge of the crowd, the black book clutched to her chest like a shield. People shrink from her as though the curse itself walks in her skin.
"Stop!" Her voice cracks across the stones. "In the name of mercy, stop!"
Rowan reaches for her again, gauntleted hand closing on empty air.
"Your Highness—"
She is already running. The guards on the platform hesitate; no one has ever dared interrupt a hanging. Rowan swears under his breath and shoves through after her, shoulder-checking two pikemen aside.
The King rises slowly, rage darkening his face.
"Rowan." One word, sharp as a blade.
"I left her in your care."
Rowan drops to one knee on the blood-spattered boards, but his eyes never leave Elsbeth.
"She slipped the tower window, sire. I rode after her the moment I knew."
Elsbeth reaches the gallows stairs. The executioner steps forward, axe still in hand, uncertain whose orders to obey now. She ignores him and climbs, skirts dragging through sawdust and old stains.
The crowd murmurs, a restless sea.
"There walks the queen's doom," an old woman hisses.
"She weeps for the monster," another spits.
"Both of them cursed."
A child begins to cry. Someone throws a rotten pear; it bursts against the platform post near Elsbeth's head. She doesn't flinch. She has eyes only for the body swaying above her.
The Jester's head hangs forward, neck bruised black, tongue protruding. Dead. Undeniably dead.
She stretches one trembling hand toward him and stops inches away. She knows the curse: Even now, even in love, she cannot hold him without killing him all over again.
Tears stream down her face.
"I'm here," she whispers.
"I'm sorry. I'm too late."
The King's voice thunders behind her.
"Remove her. Now."
Two guards start forward.
Rowan steps between them and the princess, sword half-drawn.
"Touch her and you answer to me."
The King's eyes blaze.
"You forget yourself, Rowan."
"I forget nothing," Rowan says, low.
"I swore to protect the royal blood. Both of them."
His gaze flicks to the hanged man.
"Even when the crown calls mercy treason."
The square falls quieter than before. No one has ever heard Rowan speak against the King.
Then a gasp ripples outward.
The Jester's fingers twitch.
Slowly, impossibly, the purple bruises on his neck begin to fade. Torn skin knits itself whole. His chest hits with a wet, painful breath.
His eyes open milky at first, then sharpen on nothing.
He speaks, voice raw as broken glass:
"Why won't you ever take me?" A plea aimed at the sky, at the death angel only he can see.
"Why leave me here again… please. Take me with you."
Then his gaze drifts down. Finds her.
Elsbeth stands frozen, tears shining.
The Jester's cracked lips form her name, soundless.
He drops rope severed by some unseen mercy and crumples to the platform. The crowd screams. Some fall to their knees, crossing themselves. Others scramble backward, trampling each other to flee the witch and her undead monster.
He tries to stand, legs shaking. Every movement costs him; the curse still lives and the air between them crackles like frostbite.
Still, he reaches for her.
She steps back, shaking her head.
"It'll hurt you."
"I… don... care..."
He lunges the last step and wraps his arms around her. The black book is crushed between their hearts.
Pain lances through him worse than the rope, worse than any death. A thousand iron nails drive inward, fire from inside. His knees buckle. Still, he locks his arms tighter, burying his face in her hair.
Elsbeth sobs not from hurt, because she feels the curse feast on him and can do nothing. She clutches the book harder.
"Do something," she whispers to it, voice breaking.
"I know you can hear me."
The King stares at them, face unreadable.
Rowan stands guard sword fully drawn, daring any man to approach.
In the Jester's embrace, Elsbeth feels the book grow warm against her ribs.
The book blazes white.
In the same heartbeat, the world halts.
The King's mouth freezes mid-shout. Rowan's sword hangs mid-air. A hurled stone stops inches from Elsbeth's cheek.
Only the Jester and the princess move.
The pain vanishes from his body like breath from a mirror.
The black book tears free of their embrace and hovers between them, pages whipping though no wind stirs. Silver script spills across the open vellum, visible only to Elsbeth's eyes.
She reads the words aloud, voice trembling:
I heard you, o kind-hearted princess.