Prologue: The Canvas of a Monster
The mirror was cracked, just like the mind of the man staring into it.
In the dim candlelight of the dressing room, Ciro dipped two fingers into a pot of thick, white greasepaint. The substance was cold and smelled faintly of tallow and old clay. With slow, deliberate strokes, he began to erase himself.
First, he covered the scar on his left cheek—a souvenir from a jagged blade in the Southern Wars. Stroke. The humanity vanished.
Next, he covered the dark circles under his eyes—evidence of the nightmares that plagued him every time he dared to sleep. Stroke. The exhaustion disappeared.
Finally, he dipped a fine brush into a different pot. This one was crimson. Not paint, but a pigment crushed from dried beetles and iron rust. He drew a smile. It started from the corners of his lips and stretched unnaturally high towards his cheekbones.
It was a smile that would never fade. A smile that would never falter, even as he slit throats, even as he watched the light die in men's eyes.
Ciro stared at his reflection. The man named Ciro was gone. He was buried beneath layers of white and red. Staring back at him was The Jester—the creature that felt no pain, the demon that Morvath feared.
"Life is a tragedy," he whispered to the mirror, his voice hollow.
Then, the painted smile seemed to twitch, mocking him.
"But death... death is the punchline."
He picked up his mask—a porcelain thing of beauty—and hung it on his belt. He didn't need it. His real face was already a mask.
Outside, the heavy bells of the castle toll. The King was awake. The slaughter was about to begin.
The Jester grabbed his daggers. It was time to perform.