The heavy, suffocating air around him evaporated in an instant, as if it had never been. The jester's jagged, mocking smile crawled back onto his face like a returning ghost reclaimimg a haunted house. He let out a soft, melodic chuckle—a sound that was beautiful, yet lacked even a flicker of warmth.
"A little bird, my Queen," he cooed, his voice returning to its familiar, playful rasp. "A little bird whispered to me in the dark. And birds, as you well know, see everything from above... especially the things crawling in the mud."
He gave a theatrical, sweeping bow, though the movement was betrayed by a sharp wince as the muscles in his mangled hand protested. Crimson droplets continued to pitter-patter against the cold stone—a rhythmic, bloody metronome counting down the seconds of their shared silence.
