It took Ciro nearly an hour to scrub the blood from his fingernails.
He stood by the stone basin in his quarters—a small, damp room located in the servants' dungeons. The water in the basin had turned a murky pink long ago, but he kept scrubbing. He used a rough bristled brush, scouring his skin until it was raw and red, until the phantom sensation of sticky warm blood was replaced by the stinging pain of abrasion.
He had to be clean. He couldn't touch her with hands that had just ended three lives.
Once he was satisfied, Ciro stripped off his motley—the ridiculous, colorful patchwork leather that marked him as the court fool. He dressed in simple black tunics, the kind a shadow might wear. He left the jester's cap with its jingling bells on the table.
Tonight, he needed silence.
Scaling the Astronomy Tower was child's play for him. The rough limestone walls offered plenty of handholds, and Ciro moved with the unnatural grace of a spider. The wind howled, threatening to tear him from the wall, but his grip was iron.
He reached the highest window. It was unlatched. It always was.
Ciro slipped inside, landing soundlessly on the plush rug. The room smelled of lavender and old books—a sharp contrast to the metallic stench of the Great Hall.
"You're late."
The voice was soft, melodic, yet laced with a weary sadness.
Princess Elara sat by the fireplace, wrapped in a shawl of white wool. She didn't look up from the book she was reading, but her knuckles were white as she gripped the pages. Her golden hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, shimmering in the firelight.
"The King was... talkative tonight," Ciro lied smoothly, stepping out of the shadows.
Elara finally looked up. Her eyes were a piercing emerald green, the only vibrant thing in this grey castle. She scanned him, looking for injuries. When she found none, her shoulders relaxed, but her frown deepened.
"You smell of soap and raw skin," she whispered, closing her book. "You scrubbed too hard again."
Ciro froze. He instinctively hid his hands behind his back. "Occupational hazard, Your Highness."
"Stop it." Elara stood up. She wasn't tall, but she commanded the room with a regal presence that even her father lacked. She walked towards him. "Don't call me that. Not here. Not when it's just us."
She stopped inches from him. Ciro held his breath. He was a weapon, a tool of death, and she was a porcelain doll. He was terrified that even his breath might crack her.
"Ciro," she said softly, reaching out to take his hand.
He flinched, pulling back. "My hands... they aren't clean, Elara. Not really."
"Let me decide that."
She captured his rough, red-scrubbed hand in her soft ones. She brought it to her lips and kissed the knuckles, right over the scars of his profession. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through Ciro's spine, more powerful than any blow he had ever taken in battle.
"Did my father make you do it?" she asked against his skin.
"Assassins from the South," Ciro murmured, his voice losing its mocking edge. It became deep, rough, and honest. "They wanted to kill him. I stopped them."
"You protected a tyrant," she said bitterly, looking up at him. "Sometimes I wish you would just let them pass."
"If he dies, the kingdom falls into civil war. And you..." Ciro gently touched a stray lock of her hair. "You would be a pawn for the generals. I keep him alive to keep you safe."
"Safe?" Elara laughed, a brittle sound. "I am a prisoner in a tower, Ciro. My father is selling me to the highest bidder. I heard the rumors. Prince Kaelen of the South is coming next week for 'peace talks'."
Ciro felt a cold spike in his chest. Kaelen. The Southern Prince.
"Rumors are just wind," Ciro said, though his gut twisted. "I won't let him take you."
"How?" Elara stepped closer, resting her head against his chest. She could hear his heart hammering against his ribs—a frantic, human rhythm that betrayed his calm facade. "You are one man against an army. You are just... the Jester."
Ciro wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her lavender-scented hair. For a moment, the blood, the King, and the looming darkness didn't exist. There was only this warmth.
"I am the man death refuses to touch," he whispered fiercely into her ear. "I will burn this world down before I let them take you from me. We will leave, Elara. To the East, across the sea. Where nobody knows the name of King Valerius."
Elara pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. Her expression was a mix of hope and devastating sorrow.
"Promise me," she said.
"I promise."
It was a lie. They both knew it. But in the cold, dark world of Morvath, a beautiful lie was the only thing that kept them warm.
Outside, the wind howled again, sounding like a warning. The night was far from over, and the shadows in the corner of the room seemed to stretch, reaching for them like grasping claws.