At the center of it all, the court jester stands on one hand, his colorful motley a splash of chaos against the marble floor. Bells on his pointed shoes jingle with every twitch of his balance.

Csepel Loxely rights himself with a flourish, landing light as a feather. Sweat glistens at his temples, darkening the edges of his tied-back red hair. That familiar grin stretches across his face—wide, foolish, practiced. He bows so low his nose nearly sweeps the floor.

The princess. Casca.

She sits draped in silk the color of dawn, her hands folded in her lap. Her expression is composed, serene. Her father's mirth does not reach her. But as Csepel's eyes meet hers, something shifts in the air between them. A feather-light moment. A crack in the mask.

Then it is gone. Csepel's grin widens. He tosses a painted wooden ball into the air and catches it behind his back.