The Great Hall of Morvath Palace did not smell of roasted boar or spiced wine tonight. It reeked of copper—thick, warm, and suffocating.
Jingle. Jingle.
"Is that all?"
The voice cut through the heavy silence, high-pitched and mocking. Ciro pirouetted atop the long oak dining table, the brass bells on his three-pointed cap singing a cheerful melody that felt obscenely out of place amidst the carnage.
Below him, three men lay broken. Elite assassins from the Southern Isles. Men trained for decades to move like shadows and strike like vipers.
Now, they were just meat.
One was missing an arm; the limb lay forgotten near a spilled goblet of wine, turning the expensive vintage into a muddy slurry. Another had his own dagger buried to the hilt in his eye socket. The third was arguably the unluckiest—he was still breathing.
The survivor crawled across the cold stone floor, dragging paralyzed legs, his fingers clawing at the grout.
Thump.
Ciro hopped down from the table. He didn't land with the heavy impact of a warrior; he landed as softly as a feather falling on velvet. He sauntered over to the crawling man, his movements loose and exaggerated, like a marionette with cut strings.
"Come now, my friend!" Ciro crouched, his face inches from the dying man.
The assassin looked up. Terror dilated his pupils until his eyes were entirely black. All he could see was the thick white greasepaint and the painted red smile that stretched far too wide across the Jester's face.
"You traveled across the ocean to kill a King, and now you're taking a nap on the floor? It's terribly rude," Ciro whispered, his eyes wide, unblinking, and devoid of humanity.
"M-Monster..." the assassin choked, blood bubbling past his lips. "You... aren't... human..."
Ciro pouted, placing a gloved hand over his heart in mock offense. "Monster? Oh, you flatter me. I'm just the entertainment."
Snick.
A flick of the wrist. A flash of silver.
A small, curved throwing knife vanished into the assassin's throat. The gurgling stopped instantly. The body slumped, adding one final note of silence to the room.
At the head of the table, King Valerius did not applaud.
He sat unmoved, a statue of ice in a room of fire and blood. He hadn't flinched when the assassins shattered the windows. He hadn't blinked when his Jester slaughtered them in less than sixty seconds. He simply took a slow sip of his wine, his cold grey eyes scanning the mess with mild annoyance.
"You ruined the tablecloth, Ciro," the King said. His voice was deep, devoid of gratitude.
"Red hides the stains, Your Majesty," Ciro chirped.
He stood and wiped his blade on the dead assassin's tunic before sliding it into a hidden sheath within his colorful motley. He turned to the King and bowed deeply—a grand, sweeping gesture for an audience of one.
"They say the Southern Isles breed warriors," Valerius muttered, finally standing. He stepped over a severed hand without looking down, as if it were merely a dropped napkin. "Disappointing."
"Perhaps they should send four next time," Ciro giggled, the sound bordering on hysteria. "Three is such an unlucky number."
The King walked past him, pausing just for a heartbeat. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Clean this up. And Ciro?"
"Yes, My King?"
"Try not to look so bored when you kill. It insults the guests."
"I shall practice my surprise face immediately, Sire."
Valerius didn't laugh. He never laughed. The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, the echo ringing like a funeral toll.
Alone.
The instant the King was gone, the performance died.
The manic energy evaporated from Ciro's frame. The exaggerated arch in his back collapsed. His shoulders slumped. The giggle died in his throat, replaced by a ragged exhale.
He looked around the grand hall. Gold chandeliers, velvet drapes, and the stench of butchery. This was his world. A cage of gold and blood.
He was the King's dog. The Jester who could not die. The monster parents used to frighten their children into obedience. He had killed a hundred men. Perhaps more. He remembered none of their faces.
Ciro walked to the tall window, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the marble. High above in the blackened sky, the moon cast a pale, sickly glow over the castle grounds. He ignored the reflection of the clown in the glass and stared up at the Astronomy Tower on the east wing.
A single, warm light flickered in the highest window.
Elara.
For a fleeting second, the dead, hollow look in his painted eyes softened. The urge to kill was washed away by an ache so profound it nearly brought him to his knees. He raised a trembling hand and touched the cold glass.
A bloody fingerprint smeared against the pane, marring the view of her light.
She was the only reason he hadn't burned this kingdom to ash. She was the only reason he put on the paint every morning and danced for a tyrant.
"Soon," he whispered to the empty hall.
He would wash the blood off his hands. He would scrub the scent of death from his skin until he was raw. And tonight, while the devil slept, the Jester would climb the tower to worship his angel.
But deep down, in the hollow space where his heart used to beat, Ciro knew the terrifying truth.
Monsters don't get happy endings. They only get graves.