The court shook with laughter. Goblets spilled, hands clapped the tables, and the king's booming cheer rolled through the hall like thunder. In the center of it all stood Manuel, the jester—his painted smile stretched wider than the ache in his chest.
The bells on his cap jingled with each exaggerated bow, each stumble timed to perfection. He tumbled, rolled, and rose again, his handsome features hidden beneath smudges of white and red. Yet even behind the mask, the sharp lines of his jaw and the brightness of his eyes could not be fully concealed. Many of the maidens who crowded the gallery whispered about him when they thought no one noticed. *The fool,* they called him, though their stares lingered longer than the joke allowed.
To them, he was charm wrapped in laughter. To the king, he was a servant of mirth.
But to himself—he was nothing more than an echo in a hollow chamber.
Manuel had no family waiting for him beyond these walls. An orphan since boyhood, he had learned to survive by bending his back into bows and twisting his sorrow into humor. He had become a master of hiding behind colors and bells, of weaving pain into laughter so seamlessly that no one dared suspect.
The applause thundered as he caught three apples mid-air, spun them behind his back, and finished with a flawless bow. The audience erupted again, some women's eyes soft with admiration, their lips forming secret smiles meant for him.
Manuel only felt the weight of silence.
Every cheer was a reminder that they adored the mask, not the man. The king's joy was his burden, the people's laughter his prison. When he glanced at the tall windows above, the night sky called to him—dark, honest, and free. For an instant, he imagined walking into it, leaving the paint, the bells, and the hollow laughter behind.
But he bowed again instead. The handsome orphan became the fool once more, and the court never knew the difference.
Because in their eyes, Manuel existed only when he wore the painted smile.