Valeria was thinking of her again.
It had been days since the encounter in the royal kitchen,
yet Seraphina's presence still clung to her skin like perfume.
The way the princess had stood so close,
lips barely a breath away—
only to step back,
leaving Valeria stranded in the space between longing and reality.
The memory made the jester cover her face with both hands.
She hadn't been able to look Seraphina in the eye since.
She couldn't bear to shatter the silence between them—
that fragile, whispered lullaby of almosts and not-quites.
She shifted onto her side,
left hand gently cradling her cheek,
fingertips brushing softly against her skin
as if pretending—just for a fleeting moment—
that it was Seraphina's touch instead of her own.
A knock broke her reverie.
She rose, composed herself, and opened the door.
Another ball. Another excuse for gold and glamour.
"Another?" she thought bitterly.
"The king never stops to consider the weight on his people.
He celebrates while the kingdom bleeds.
So why should we care… if he ever does?"
Her thoughts were interrupted by the guard standing before her.
—"Princess Seraphina requests your presence at the royal supper."
The words caught in her throat.
Me?
She barely managed to whisper the question.
The guard nodded.
Her hands gripped the doorframe,
torn between dread and desire.
—"I'll be there in a moment,"
she finally answered,
closing the door behind her as she moved to prepare.
She didn't take long.
Her costume—striking and deliberate—
was a reflection of the contradiction she had become.
A jester wrapped in artistry and menace.
Her bodysuit was cleanly split:
deep wine-red on the right, pitch black on the left,
stitched with fine gold thread.
Crimson and black stripes adorned her puffed sleeves,
gathered at the wrists with black-and-white banded cuffs.
A silver-gray ruffled collar framed her neck,
elegant and haunting,
mirroring the exaggerated shoulder mantle—
winged, black, with golden trim and swaying tassels.
Her harlequin skirt jutted sharply outward,
spiked like courtly jesters of old,
each point ending in a small gold bell.
One leg bore a solid red, the other—golden diamonds
matching the back of her bodice.
Her heeled boots curved at the toes,
bells chiming with every step.
Atop her head, the twin-horned cap:
black and red, gold bells at each tip,
framing a pale, painted face—
the ever-smiling mask that never quite reached her eyes.
And yet, the final thing missing
was her will to be there.
She yearned for Seraphina—achingly so—
but the awkward encounter haunted her like a song on loop,
each note ringing louder as she neared the royal presence.
Her wooden shoes echoed lightly on the polished floors
as she approached the grand dining chamber.
The twin doors swung open—
And to her surprise,
a carousel of festivity awaited her.
She faltered.
Laughter, spinning dancers,
melodies drifting through candlelit air.
A celebration.
And then she saw them—
the royal family seated on their thrones:
The king, stern as ever.
Lucien, ever poised.
Young Prince Caelum, radiant and engaged with the music.
And Seraphina…
Seraphina, bathed in gold and silk,
watching it all unfold with that unreadable expression.
—"Jinx!"
Alaric's booming voice snapped her from her thoughts,
his hand waving dismissively toward the crowd.
A command.
She had nearly forgotten—
this wasn't just another royal supper.
It was Caelum's coming-of-age.
His debut into his own era—his flapper chapter,
full of reckless freedom and royal spectacle.
And yet Valeria stood there,
still caught in the memory
of a princess's lips too close to forget.
Valeria finally snapped—
joining the crowd in wild abandon.
She danced among nobles and shadows,
spinning and twisting with chaotic grace.
For a moment, she let herself vanish in the noise,
just another figure beneath the chandeliers.
But Seraphina watched her.
Those aquamarine eyes—
clear, piercing, devoted—
remained fixed on the jester's every movement.
Valeria danced as she always did:
bold, strange, unapologetically theatrical.
A blur of color and rhythm,
mask still painted in its eternal grin.
But Seraphina didn't look away.
She couldn't.
She'd been thinking about that night in the kitchen.
The trembling in Valeria's lips,
the barely-contained desire
woven into every glance.
And then—
—"Valeria."
The princess spoke her name aloud.
Not "Jester."
Not "Jinx."
Her name.
It hit Valeria like a stone to the chest.
Her knees threatened to give.
Her stomach twisted with heat and fear and something far deeper.
Valeria stepped forward instinctively,
bowing low before the throne—
but to her shock,
one of the princess's delicate wedge-heeled feet
rose to tilt Valeria's chin upward,
guiding her gaze into Seraphina's own.
The princess looked divine.
Her gown was a dream:
ivory satin glowing softly in the candlelight.
A fitted bodice cinched her waist,
a row of satin-covered buttons drawing the eye down her torso.
At the neckline, ruffles bloomed like roses,
framing the chest in gentle decadence.
Lace sleeves fluttered at her shoulders,
scalloped edges catching even the smallest motion.
The skirt cascaded in gathered layers,
parted with elegant arcs held by rosettes and folds.
Panels of embroidered lace peeked through,
trailing into a sweeping train that whispered across the floor.
Every detail was crafted with intention—
romantic, regal, and quietly defiant.
Valeria would remember this forever.
Her own eyes, wide and dark, reflected back all she felt.
A longing so raw it hurt.
A hunger that didn't scream—it simmered.
Her gaze said what her lips dared not:
"Touch me. See me. Know me."
Seraphina leaned in—
and for a second, Valeria thought she might—
But the moment shattered.
A tidal wave of disapproval came from the thrones:
her father's sharp voice,
her brother Lucien's judgmental glare.
The princess lowered her foot.
Valeria began to rise—
But Seraphina lifted a hand,
a silent gesture that stilled her.
Then, with a voice firm and echoing:
—"Have you ever even looked at her, Father?
Have you ever bothered to learn her name?"
Alaric bristled.
—"A she?!"
he roared.
"You dare use such words, speak such desires—
do you want to shame this bloodline entirely?!
Have you lost your mind, girl?!"
Seraphina rose.
No longer the composed royal,
but a storm bottled into a gown of lace and fire.
—"In this room,"
she hissed,
"I am the only one who sees people.
Not servants. Not clowns. People."
Her voice cracked under the weight of pain.
—"What happened to you, Father?
What happened after Mother died—"
But her words were cut short—
by the back of his hand.
A collective gasp silenced the room.
Seraphina's head snapped sideways.
Her red hair spilled from its bun,
a chaotic wave against ivory silk.
The impact echoed like a curse.
She turned back slowly,
meeting her father's eyes with the fury of a storm.
Her aquamarine gaze blazed—
shimmering, unblinking, full of fire.
One tear cut down her flushed cheek.
Not from pain—
but from heartbreak.
It was the look of someone
who still, despite everything,
wished the hand that struck her
had held her instead.
The king's fury faded to guilt.
His hand dropped to his side,
as if realizing too late what he'd done.
—"My dear—" he began.
But she was already gone.
Seraphina turned and fled the ballroom,
her brothers hurrying behind her,
their faces painted with concern and quiet shame.
The king stood alone.
The entire room stared at him.
Some in disbelief.
Others in disgust.
Valeria's stare was different.
It was burning.
Not just with rage—
but with anguish.
In that moment,
she vowed something silent and dark.
A promise forged in pain:
She would crucify the king.