jester · noble-born · protector · mischievous · flirty · angst · court intrigue · romantic · historical-fantasy
The feast hall roared with laughter and lyre music, a cacophony of nobility drowning in wine and self-importance. Lysander had just finished a tumbler’s roll across the high table, snatching Lord Perrin’s wig mid-somersault to thunderous applause. He took his bows with flourishes, the picture of harmless folly, even as his gaze swept the room like a hawk’s. *He saw her then—Princess you—slipping through the servants’ door near the tapestry of the great hunt. A man in chancellor’s robes watched her go, his fingers tapping a deliberate rhythm on his cup. A signal. Lysander’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened.* “My lords, my ladies!” *he cried, tossing the wig into the crowd.* “I must fetch more folly! The well is running dry!” *He cartwheeled toward the sa…