The bells had to go.
Back in the damp solitude of his dungeon quarters, Ciro tore the jester's cap from his head and threw it into the corner. The cheerful jingling sound it made as it hit the stone floor mocked him.
He stripped off the colorful leather motley, leaving him in his black under-tunics. He didn't bother to wash the paint off his face yet. There was no time.
He moved through the castle's secret passages—narrow corridors built inside the walls, known only to the rats and the King's spies. He climbed the spiral stairs that wrapped around the Astronomy Tower, his footsteps silent as a ghost's.
When he slipped into Elara's room, she was not sleeping.
She was standing by the window, staring at the moon, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold her shattered pieces together. The bruise on her chin where Kaelen had grabbed her was already blooming, a dark violet mark against her porcelain skin.
"He will kill me, Ciro," she whispered, not turning around. She knew it was him. She always knew.
Ciro stepped out of the shadows. Seeing that bruise made the monster inside him claw at its cage. It took every ounce of his discipline not to turn around, march to the guest quarters, and slit Kaelen's throat in his sleep.
"He will not," Ciro said, his voice rough. "We are leaving. Not next month. Not next week. Soon."
Elara turned to him. Her eyes were red from crying. "How? The guards are doubled. Kaelen's soldiers are everywhere. We can't just walk out the front gate."
Ciro approached the small table in the center of the room. He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his boot—a stolen map of the castle grounds and the surrounding forest.
"The Masquerade," Ciro said, spreading the map.
"The... ball?" Elara frowned, confused. "Father is holding a ball to celebrate the engagement in three days."
"Exactly," Ciro pointed to the Great Hall on the map. "Hundreds of guests. Nobles from neighboring lands. Servants running everywhere. Chaos."
He looked up at her, his painted smile stark against the seriousness in his black eyes.
"Chaos is a ladder, Elara. While everyone is watching the dancers, while the wine is flowing and the music is loud... we will slip away."
He traced a line on the map with his gloved finger. "Through the wine cellar. There is a drainage tunnel that leads to the river. I have a boat waiting."
Elara looked at the map, then at Ciro. Hope, fragile and terrifying, sparked in her eyes. "A boat?"
"It's small. It leaks a little. But it will take us to the coast," Ciro said softly.
Elara reached out and covered his hand with hers. Her skin was warm against his cold leather glove. "And then?"
"And then we run until our legs give out. We run until the name 'Morvath' is just a bad dream."
For the first time in what felt like years, a genuine, tiny smile touched Elara's lips. It was weak, but to Ciro, it was brighter than the sun.
"Three days," she whispered. "I have to survive him for three days."
Ciro turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with hers. He squeezed tight, a silent vow.
"You won't be alone. I will be your shadow. If he touches you again..." Ciro's voice dropped to a dark growl, "...I will forget the King's orders. I will forget the plan. And I will make the Southern Kingdom mourn their Prince."
Elara stepped closer. She reached up, her trembling fingers hesitating inches from his face. "Ciro... your mask."
He flinched. He hated being seen without it, but he hated denying her even more.
"The paint protects me," he murmured.
"I don't want protection right now," she whispered. "I want to see you."
With a shaky breath, Ciro grabbed a cloth from her vanity table. He wiped the white greasepaint from his cheek, then the red smile, revealing the pale skin and the tired, human face underneath.
He wasn't the Jester. He wasn't the Assassin. He was just a man who was terrified of losing the only thing he loved.
Elara leaned in and pressed her forehead against his.
"Three days," she repeated, like a prayer.
"Three days," Ciro echoed.
But as he held her in the safety of the tower, Ciro couldn't shake the feeling of dread settling in his gut. Fate was a cruel writer, and happy endings were rare in Morvath.
Outside, a raven cawed loudly, cutting through the silence of the night.
It sounded less like a bird, and more like a warning.