KINGDOM OF LIVERIA
In the highest, dust-choked corner of Liveria's royal library, a book that had no title, no author, and no place on any shelf waited for six hundred years.
On the night the Eleventh Jester neared the kingdom's gates, the book finally moved.
It slid forward by itself, toppled from the shelf, and fell.
The sound it made was not the thump of parchment but the hollow knock of something that had been holding its breath for centuries.
Its pages fluttered open as though an unseen hand had been waiting to turn them.
Princess Elsbeth who walked through the palace like a ghost no one noticed looked down.
The black book lay warm at her feet.
She knelt, lifting it carefully.
The cover pulsed faintly beneath her fingers, like a heart trapped under leather.
No title. No author.
Only a warmth deeper than life.
She opened it.
The letters inside shifted, crawled, then settled forming a language she had never learned but could understand effortlessly.
Let the one who has never laughed at suffering read these words.
Let the unseen see.
Elsbeth inhaled sharply.
The book had chosen her.
And thus, the story began.
⟣ The Curse of the Nameless Clan ⟢
Long ago, beyond the edges of any map Liveria still remembers, lay a clan of laughing mortals who mocked the heavens.
They danced beneath moonless skies, taunting the stars, calling thunder a coward and eternity a poor joke.
The god they mocked waited centuries for one bowed head.
None came.
So the sky tore open.
The ground cracked in two.
Light swallowed the land.
Almost all of them died with laughter frozen on their scorched faces.
Only ten survived.
And among those ten… a woman heavy with child.
For them, death would have been mercy.
The god took their names, stitched bells to their souls, froze their bodies at the height of youth, and spoke the curse that cannot be unspoken:
"You will live until the world forgets how to laugh at suffering.
You will speak only truth, yet truth will twist into jest.
You will dance when you would scream.
You will smile when you would weep.
No hand you raise may ever harm another.
Your agony will be entertainment.
Refuse, and torment shall devour you."
Thus was born the first generation of Cursed Jesters.
The ten were scattered across the continents.
To the world, they became curiosities soulless entertainers, unlucky omens, walking jokes.
Touching one meant misfortune.
Owning one was fashionable.
Blaming one was convenient.
But the ten did not die.
They could not.
Across the centuries they were thrown into dungeons, sealed in sea-chains, buried alive, or left to wander until madness welcomed them.
And still they lived.
All ten were eventually lost to the world.
But before they were forgotten, one of them the pregnant woman gave birth.
Her child inherited the curse.
He became the Eleventh Jester He Stopped Aging At 25.
The last one still wandering.
The last one the world could laugh at.
⟣ Princess Elsbeth ⟢
Elsbeth closed the book with trembling fingers.
A knock echoed through the library doors.
An elderly guard entered, bowing deeply.
"Your Highness… forgive me for intruding. The king has summoned the court."
He hesitated, lowering his voice.
"But I thought… you should see the jester yourself."
He was one of the few who remembered she existed one of the few who didn't fear her birth.
For ever since the queen died delivering her, whispers followed Elsbeth through the palace like a cold draft:
Ill omen.
Cursed child.
Born under a death shadow.
Servants avoided her.
Courtiers overlooked her.
She moved through the palace unseen, unacknowledged, untouched by laughter or warmth.
She tucked the black book under her arm and followed the old guard silently.
Because she now knew the jester approaching the gates was no ordinary performer.
He was the Eleventh.
Born into a curse as old as sin.
Paying for crimes committed before he ever took his first breath.
⟣ The Eleventh Jester ⟢
Across the Glass Desert, he crawled.
Sand tore open his knees; cursed healing sealed them just enough to break again.
Blood dried on his lips; laughter stuck in his throat like splinters.
Every town mocked him.
Every child hurled fruit.
Every adult crossed the road to avoid touching the omen of misfortune.
Children followed him, chanting:
"Jester, Jester, bright and bold,
Never young and never old,
Tell us true and we'll believe,
Lie, and we shall never grieve!"
And because he could speak only truth twisted into jokes, he bowed until his cap brushed the dirt and sang:
"A riddle, my darlings, a riddle so sweet:
What has a heart yet cannot weep?
What has a mouth yet cannot scream?
What lives forever in a child's bad dream?
Why, 'tis I your fool, your toy, your pet
the saddest thing you'll never forget!"
The children shrieked with laughter.
He opened his mouth.
The truth surged up his throat like a scream:
Please. See me. Someone. End this.
The curse snatched it and twisted it.
What came out was:
"Oh children, shall I drop dead?
No, drop a pie upon my head!
Tickle me till I faint with glee—
but whatever you do, don't look at me!"
The crowd laughed.
He bled.
He danced because he had no choice.
And not a single person saw the pain behind the paint.
⟣ At the Gates of Liveria ⟢
He arrived dancing.
Pebbles bounced off him as guards "tested" whether he was real.
He bowed, joked, spun, grinned.
Every motion flawless.
Every flourish agony.
The gates opened.
And the Eleventh Jester stepped into the kingdom to perform.
⟣ At the Palace The Performance ⟢
In the golden hall he flipped and spun, mocked the king in perfect rhyme, mocked justice, mocked love and every courtier roared approval, because truth in a jester's mouth is only seasoning for their wine.
Then his storm-grey eyes found her.
Quiet.
Alone.
Unnoticed by the court.
Unloved by the world.
Elsbeth. Standing apart, a shadow wearing velvet, clutching the black book like a secret heartbeat.
He knew that look.
He had lived inside it for centuries.
Something in him twisted painfully.
He tried Gods, he tried to speak truth without cruelty, without mockery:
"Please… see me. You're the only one who might understand."
The curse grabbed the words, bent them, snapped them into performance.
What came out was:
"Oh gracious Princess, I beg of thee,
Spare me not just tickle me!
Throw pies, throw flowers, or a shoe,
But never guess what's actually true!"
The court roared.
Elsbeth did not laugh.
Her gaze lingered sharp, listening, almost… seeing.
She noticed the slight tremor in his hands.
The wobble in his stance.
The smear of blood hidden in his painted smile.
For one fragile heartbeat, he thought:
She sees me.
She might be the first to ever see me.
For the first time in centuries his painted smile cracked of its own accord. Across the roar of noble laughter two invisible creatures recognized each other.
She saw the tremor in his fingers. He saw the tremor in her gaze. The book against her chest grew hotter, as if it, too, had waited long enough. She opened her mouth no sound came yet but the God felt the air change. Something older than mercy had finally stepped into the room.