KINGDOM OF LIVERIA
In the highest, dust-choked corner of Liveria's royal library, a black book magically appears it has no title, no author, and no place on any shelf.
On the night the Eleventh Jester nears the kingdom's gates, the book finally moves.
It slides forward by itself, topples from the shelf, and falls.
The sound it made was not the thump of parchment but the hollow knock of something that has been holding its breath for centuries.
Its pages flutters open as though an unseen hand had been waiting to turn them.
Princess Elsbeth who walks through the palace like a ghost unnotice looks down.
The black book laying warm at her feet.
She kneels, lifting it carefully.
The cover pulsed faintly beneath her fingers, like a heart trapped under leather.
No title. No author.
Only a warmth deeper than life.
She opens it.
The letters appear and begins to shift and crawl before settling into a language she has never learned, yet understands effortlessly.
Let the one who has never laughed at suffering read these words.
Let the unseen see.
Elsbeth inhales sharply.
The book has chosen her.
And thus, the story begins.
⟣ The Curse of the Nameless Clan ⟢
Long long ago, beyond the edges of any map Liveria still remembers, lay a clan of laughing mortals who mocked the Heavens and the God.
They danced beneath moonless skies, taunting the stars, calling thunder a coward and eternity a poor joke.
The god they mocked waited centuries for one bowed head.
None came.
So the sky tore open.
The ground cracked in two.
Light swallowed the land.
Almost all of them died with laughter frozen on their scorched faces.
Only ten survived.
And among those ten… a woman heavy with child.
For them, death would have been mercy.
The god took their names, stitched bells to their souls, froze their bodies at the height of youth, and spoke the curse that cannot be unspoken:
"You will live until the world forgets how to laugh at suffering.
You will speak , yet the words will twist into jest.
You will dance when you would scream.
You will smile when you would weep.
No hand you raise may ever harm another.
Your agony will be entertainment.
Refuse, and torment shall devour you."
Thus was born the first generation of Cursed Jesters.
The ten were scattered across the continents.
To the world, they became curiosities soulless entertainers, unlucky omens, walking jokes.
Touching one meant misfortune.
Owning one was fashionable.
Blaming one was convenient.
But the ten did not die.
They could not.
Across the centuries they were thrown into dungeons, sealed in sea-chains, buried alive, or left to wander until madness welcomed them.
And still they lived.
All ten were eventually lost to the world.
But before they were forgotten, one of them the pregnant woman gave birth.
Her child inherited the curse.
He became the Eleventh Jester. He stopped aging at 25.
The last one still wanders, drawing closer to the kingdom gates.
The last one the world can laugh at.
⟣ Princess Elsbeth ⟢
Elsbeth closes the book with trembling fingers.
A knock echoes through the library doors.
An old knight enters, bowing deeply.
"Princess… forgive me for intruding. The king has summoned the court."
He hesitated, lowering his voice.
"And I thought… you should see the jester that is approaching yourself."
He was one of the few who remembered she existed one of the few who didn't fear her birth.
For ever since the queen died delivering her, whispers followed Elsbeth through the palace like a cold draft:
Ill omen.
Cursed child.
Born under a death shadow.
Servants avoided her.
Courtiers overlooked her.
She moved through the palace unseen, unacknowledged, untouched by laughter or warmth.
She tucks the book under her arm and follows the old knight silently.
Because she now knows the jester approaching the gates is no ordinary performer.
He is the Eleventh.
Born into a curse as old as sin.
Paying for crimes committed before he ever took his first breath.
⟣ The Eleventh Jester ⟢
Across the Glass Desert, he crawls
Sand tearing open his knees; cursed healing sealing them just enough to break again.
Blood dried on his lips; laughter stuck in his throat like splinters.
Every town mocks him.
Every child hurls fruit.
Every adult crosses the road to avoid touching the omen of misfortune.
Children follows him, chanting:
"Jester, Jester, bright and bold,
Never young and never old,
Tell us the truth and we'll believe,
Lie, and we shall never grieve!"
And because he can speak only in words twisted into jokes and riddles, he bows until his cap brushes the dirt and sings:
"A riddle, my darlings, a riddle so sweet:
What has a heart yet cannot weep?
What has a mouth yet cannot scream?
What lives forever in a child's bad dream?
Why, 'tis I your fool, your toy, your pet
the saddest thing you'll never forget!"
The children shrieks with laughter.
He opens his mouth.
The truth surges up his throat like a scream:
Please. See me. Someone. End this.
The curse snatches it and twists it.
What comes out is:
"Oh children, shall I drop dead?
No, drop a pie upon my head!
Tickle me till I faint with glee—
but whatever you do, don't look at me!"
The crowd laughs.
He bleeds.
He dances because he has no choice.
And not a single person sees the pain behind the paint.
⟣ At the Gates Central of Liveria ⟢
He arrives dancing.
Pebbles bounce off him as guards "tests" whether he was real.
He bows, jokes, spins, grins.
Every motion flawless.
Every flourish agony.
The gates opens.
And the Eleventh Jester steps into the kingdom to perform.
⟣ At the Palace The Performance ⟢
In the golden hall he flips and spins, mocking the king in perfect rhyme, mocking justice, mocking love and every courtier roars approval, because truth in a jester's mouth is only seasoning for their wine.
Then his storm-grey eyes find her.
Quiet.
Alone.
Unnoticed by the court.
Unloved by the world.
Standing apart, Princess Elsbeth is little more than a shadow draped in velvet. A silver crown gleams atop her neatly tied hair, lending shape to a presence that feels half-real. She clutches the black book against her chest like a stolen heartbeat.
He knows that look.
After all, he has lived inside it for centuries.
Something in him twists painfully.
He tries Gods, he tries to speak without cruelty, without mockery:
"Please… see me. You're the only one who might understand."
The curse grabs the words, bends them, snaps them into performance.
What comes out is:
"Oh gracious Princess, I beg of thee,
Spare me not just tickle me!
Throw pies, throw flowers, or a shoe,
But never guess what's actually true!"
The court roars again.
Elsbeth doesn't not laugh.
Her gaze lingers sharp, listening, almost… seeing.
She notices the slight tremor in his hands.
The wobble in his stance.
The smear of blood hidden in his painted smile.
For one fragile heartbeat, he thinks:
She sees me.
She might be the first to ever see me.
For the first time in centuries his painted smile cracks of its own accord. Across the roar of noble laughter two invisible creatures recognize each other.
She sees the tremor in his fingers. He sees the tremor in her gaze. The book against her chest grows hot, as if it, too, has waited long enough. She opens her mouth no sound comes yet but the Gods feels the air change. Something ancient has finally stepped into the room.
Then, for the first time in her life, she walks forward alone.
The courtiers parts without thinking, the way people step back from a leper or a ghost.
Velvet skirts and silk doublets brush aside as though her shadow burns.
She isn't not looking at them.
She's looking only at him.
The Eleventh Jester remains frozen in his bow, spine curved, bells silent, because the curse does not let him rise before royalty unless commanded. His storm-grey eyes track her approach, wide and disbelieving.
She stops less than an arm's length away.
Close enough to see the faint tremor in the hand that still hovering mid-gesture, waiting for the next forced joke.
Slowly, deliberately, Elsbeth reaches out.
Her fingertips brushing the smallest bell on the tip of his crimson cap.
She flicks it once.
A single, pure note rings out, clear as a struck wineglass, cutting every other sound dead.
Then, so softly that only he could hear, softer than candle-smoke, softer than a confession in the dark:
"I heard you."
The bell keeps ringing long after her fingers has fallen away, as though it, too, had been waiting centuries for someone to make it speak the truth.