The private dining chamber was suffocatingly warm. The fireplace roared with unnecessary vigor, casting long, dancing shadows against the tapestries.
Dinner was a quiet affair, save for the sound of silver scraping against porcelain.
Prince Kaelen sat at the head of the small table, nursing a goblet of heavy red wine. His wrist was bandaged—a reminder of his humiliation in the training grounds earlier that afternoon. He hadn't spoken a word since the soup was served.
Opposite him sat Princess Elara. She ate mechanically, her eyes fixed on her plate, trying to make herself as small as possible.
And in the corner, standing as still as a statue, was Ciro.
He was not juggling tonight. He was not telling jokes. He was the silent servant, holding a pitcher of wine, his painted face hidden in the shadows. But his eyes never left Kaelen's hands.
"The meat is tough," Kaelen grumbled, breaking the silence. He dropped his fork with a clatter. "Is this the best Morvath can offer? Old goat dressed as lamb?"
"It is venison, my Prince," Elara said softly, her voice steady. "Hunted fresh this morning."
"It tastes like leather," Kaelen sneered. He reached out for his goblet, his movements slightly sluggish. He was drunk. "Pour me more wine, Fool."
Ciro stepped forward instantly. He moved with the grace of a phantom, filling the Prince's cup without spilling a drop. As he leaned in, Kaelen stiffened, remembering the iron grip on his wrist from the arena. The Prince glared at the Jester, his ego still bruised.
"Get out of my sight," Kaelen spat. "Go stand by the door. You smell of the stables."
Ciro bowed deep. "As you wish, Your Highness."
He retreated to the door, his bells silent. Inside his mind, however, he was vividly imagining drowning the Prince in the wine pitcher.
Kaelen turned his attention back to Elara. He stared at her, his eyes raking over her form with a possessiveness that made Ciro's blood boil.
"My father tells me you are fertile," Kaelen said bluntly.
Elara choked slightly on her water. She placed the glass down, her knuckles turning white. "I... I am healthy, my Lord."
"Good. The Southern bloodline needs strong heirs." Kaelen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I expect a son within the first year. If you give me a daughter, we will keep trying until you get it right. I have no patience for useless women."
Elara trembled. "I understand."
Kaelen stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He walked over to her, his heavy boots thudding ominously. He grabbed her chin with his rough hand, forcing her to look up at him.
"You are shaking," Kaelen observed, his thumb pressing hard into her cheek, bruising the delicate skin. "Are you afraid of me, Princess?"
"I am... respectful, my Lord," Elara stammered, wincing from the pressure.
"Good. Fear keeps a wife obedient."
From the doorway, a soft, singular ching sounded.
It was the sound of a bell. But it wasn't a cheerful jingle. It was a sharp, sudden noise caused by a body tense with lethal intent.
Kaelen released Elara and spun around. He narrowed his eyes at Ciro. The Jester was standing exactly where he had been, but his posture was rigid. His hand was hovering dangerously close to the hidden daggers at his belt.
"What is it, Fool?" Kaelen barked. "Do you have something to say?"
Ciro's hand relaxed instantly. The painted smile stretched wide, though the muscles in his jaw were tight enough to snap.
"I was merely checking for... drafts, Your Highness," Ciro said, his voice straining to keep its playful pitch. "The wind is howling tonight. It would be a shame if a chill ruined the mood."
Kaelen snorted, dismissing the threat. "Get her out of here. She bores me."
"At once."
Ciro stepped forward, offering his arm to Elara. She took it, her fingers digging into his forearm like claws. She was holding onto him not for propriety, but to keep from collapsing.
As they walked out of the heavy oak doors, leaving the drunken Prince behind, the silence in the hallway was deafening.
They walked until they were far away, in the dim corridor leading to Elara's chambers. Only then did Elara stop. She leaned against the cold stone wall, gasping for air, frantically wiping the spot on her chin where Kaelen had touched her, as if his touch were poison.
"He is a monster," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Ciro stood before her. He wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes. He wanted to go back into that room and carve the smile off Kaelen's face until the Prince screamed for mercy.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
"I know," Ciro said, his voice low and devoid of mirth.
"He wants a son, Ciro. He wants... he expects..." Elara couldn't finish the sentence. She looked at Ciro, her emerald eyes pleading, filled with a terror that cut him deeper than any blade. "Do not let him take me away. Please."
Ciro reached out, his gloved hand hovering over her cheek, but he didn't touch her. He couldn't. He was just the dog.
He pulled back, his fist clenching at his side until the leather creaked.
"Go to sleep, Elara," he said, turning away because he couldn't bear to see her pain any longer. "Lock your door."
"Ciro?"
He stopped but didn't look back. The shadows covered his face.
"The King's orders are iron," Ciro whispered to the darkness.
Then, he looked at his own shaking hand.
"But iron can rust."
He walked away, his bells silent, leaving the Princess alone in the shadows.
Tonight, the Jester would not sleep. Tonight, he would sharpen his knives.