The king’s crown was barely settled when the jester stepped forward. His bells chimed once, sharp as flint, drawing every eye in the torchlit hall.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing so deep his cap brushed the rushes, “how good to see the crown atop your head, not… elsewhere. Had it landed on your looking-glass, we’d never have found you. You’d be swiping and tapping until the crows came home.”
A few chuckles leaked out like air from a wineskin. The king’s smile was polite, the kind a man wears when told his robe is inside out.
The jester strolled across the dais steps, drawing lazy shapes in the air with his hands. “Your realm is thriving, Sire. The northern ice—melting faster than the Chancellor’s morals in the presence of marzipan. Soon your palace will have a lovely dock, perfect for fishing… though you’ll be taxing mermaids instead of merchants.”
The Bishop shifted in his chair, the motion small but sharp enough to catch in the jester’s peripheral vision.
He kept moving, circling like a hawk testing the wind. “Some say the folk spend too long staring at glowing panes. I say, nonsense. We’ve stared at glowing panes for centuries—we just called them stained glass. At least saints don’t send you endless scrolls promising thicker beards in three days or your silver back.”
This time the laughter broke wider, rolling toward the rafters. The jester saw two guards glance at each other, mouths twitching before they forced them flat. The king’s hand tightened on the arm of his throne.
He let the moment breathe, then stepped closer. The warm scent of beeswax and crushed thyme from the banquet tables drifted up. “Yet the people are restless. Not for bread, but for connection. And like the moat after last year’s floods, they drown in it. Letters pile higher than the messenger’s horse, all lamenting the loss of letters.”
A ripple passed through the courtiers. Not laughter—something quieter, like the shuffle of feet under heavy robes.
He met the king’s eyes. “Your Majesty is captain of a fine ship. Trouble is—” He stopped, tilting his head, listening to the silence tighten. “—the ship is on fire, the crew is sunbathing, and the captain asks if anyone’s brought a charger.”
The hall froze.
“The horse, not the lightning-box, though I daresay either might help.”
Then came a scatter of laughs, clipped short by darting glances toward the throne.
The king rose, robes whispering against the floor. The jester bowed, deeper than before. “Your reign will be bright, Sire,” he said lightly, “bright as the noon sun on melting ice.”
The king’s smile returned, slow as a drawbridge lowering. “Then let us hope you are wrong.”
“I hope so too,” the jester replied, bells chiming as he turned away. “But hope, Your Majesty, casts no shade.”
Curious how much is AI? Read the prompts here.