The wedding bells of the Obsidian Palace did not ring for celebration. They rang for a sacrifice.
Princess Elara of House Morvath stood before the High Altar, her breath hitching in a throat dry with terror. She wore a dress of white silk woven with diamond dust—a garment that cost more than a city block, yet felt heavier than a prisoner's chains. Around her neck sat the Star-Heart Necklace, a priceless artifact that hummed with a faint suppression field, marking her not as a bride, but as property.
"Do you, Prince Kaelen, take this woman to be your lawful wife?" the High Priest droned, his voice echoing in the vaulted hall.
The air smelled of expensive incense and underlying rot.
Prince Kaelen turned to her. He was undeniably beautiful—golden hair, eyes like polished sapphires, and a smile that had charmed half the nobility into submission. But Elara knew the truth. Behind that perfect mask lay a sadistic monster who flayed servants for spilling wine.
"I do," Kaelen said smoothly.
He reached out to take her hand. His grip was tight, crushing her fingers until the knuckles popped painfully.
"Smile, my love," he whispered, leaning in close so only she could hear. His breath smelled of mint and malice. "You look like you're attending a funeral. Or perhaps... you are."
Elara trembled. Not from fear, but from the adrenaline flooding her veins.
She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to be a breeding mare for his twisted genetic experiments.
"And do you, Princess Elara..."
Elara looked up. She looked at the hundreds of nobles watching from the pews, their faces masked in indifference. She looked at her father, the King, who refused to meet her eyes.
"I..." Elara started, her voice barely a whisper.
Her hand moved. Not to Kaelen's hand, but to her intricate hair bun.
She pulled out a hairpin—a sharp, six-inch needle of black steel she had sharpened against her vanity mirror for three nights.
"I refuse!"
SWISH.
She drove the needle toward Kaelen's jugular vein with every ounce of hatred she possessed.
It was a perfect strike. Fast. Lethal. Born of desperation.
CLANG.
But it didn't pierce skin. It sparked against an invisible barrier inches from his neck. The magic rippled like water, absorbing the blow instantly.
Kaelen didn't even flinch. He just sighed, as if disappointed by a boring play.
"Shield Charm, level four," Kaelen said, bored. He didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he slapped her across the face with his free hand.
SMACK.
The force sent her sprawling onto the cold marble floor. The hairpin skittered away, lost under the pews.
"Did you really think you could kill me with a hair accessory?" Kaelen laughed, wiping a speck of dust from his ceremonial golden armor. "Guards. Break her legs. She won't need them to produce an heir."
The horror of his command silenced the hall. Even the corrupt nobles gasped.
Two Royal Guards in heavy plate armor stepped forward from the shadows, drawing their shock-batons. The electricity crackled ominously.
Elara scrambled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was unarmed. Alone.
"Please..." Elara gasped, backing into the stone altar.
The first guard raised his baton.
Then, the massive stained-glass window above the altar exploded.
CRASH!
A rain of colorful shards showered the hall like deadly confetti. A figure swung in on a rope, flipping through the air with acrobatic grace.
He landed on the altar table in a crouch, right between Elara and the executioners.
He wasn't a knight. He wasn't a hero in shining armor.
He wore a ridiculous motley of red and black leather. Silver bells jingled on his hood. A white porcelain comedy mask covered his face, painted with an exaggerated, bloody red smile.
It was the Court Jester. Ciro.
"My Lords! My Ladies!" Ciro shouted, spreading his arms wide as if performing a magic trick. "I apologize for the interruption, but the bride seems to have cold feet!"
"Kill the clown," Kaelen ordered, annoyed, waving his hand dismissively.
The guard swung his shock-baton at Ciro's head, aiming to crush his skull.
Ciro didn't dodge. He moved into the swing.
CRUNCH.
With a speed that blurred the eye, Ciro jammed a curved, serrated dagger under the guard's helmet, straight into the throat.
The guard gurgled, blood spraying onto the white altar cloth, and collapsed.
The hall erupted in screams.
Ciro didn't stop. He spun, his bells jingling merrily as he kicked the second guard in the knee. The sound of bone shattering echoed through the room. Before the man could scream, Ciro drove his dagger into the man's eye slit.
Two kills in three seconds.
The Jester stood over the bodies, flicking blood off his blade with a casual wrist movement. He turned to Elara.
Behind the porcelain comedy mask, Elara saw his eyes through the holes. They weren't the eyes of a fool. They were cold, dead, and sharp as broken glass.
"Up, Princess," Ciro said, his voice stripping away the playful high-pitched accent he usually used. It was deep, rough, and dangerous. "Unless you want to stay for the cake."
"Ciro?" Elara stared, stunned. The man who juggled apples for her amusement in the gardens... was a monster?
"Run!" Ciro grabbed her hand, pulling her up.
"Seize them!" Kaelen roared, his perfect composure finally breaking. "Close the gates! Activate the Wardens!"
From the shadows of the hall, massive mechanical shapes began to stir. Wardens. Ancient automated golems of brass and steam, waking up to defend the crown. Their eyes glowed red.
"We can't fight those!" Elara cried as Ciro pulled her toward the balcony, cutting down another guard who tried to intercept them.
"We aren't fighting," Ciro grunted, kicking open the heavy oak doors leading to the outer terrace. "We are jumping."
They burst out onto the balcony. The wind howled, whipping Elara's torn dress around her.
Below them lay the glistening capital city, floating on its massive tectonic plate. But Ciro didn't look at the city. He looked down, straight down the sheer cliff face of the palace foundations.
At the bottom of the cliff, miles below the floating paradise, lay a sea of grey, toxic fog.
The Ashlands. The radioactive wasteland where the poor were banished, where machines went to rust, and where monsters roamed.
"You're insane," Elara screamed over the wind. "The fall will kill us!"
"Better the fall than the Prince," Ciro said, sheathing his dagger.
The heavy thud of mechanical footsteps shook the floor. The Wardens were behind them, crushing the stone tiles with their weight. Kaelen stood in the doorway, his hand glowing with magical energy, preparing a spell.
"Elara!" Kaelen shouted, his face twisted in rage. "There is nowhere to go! Come back, and I will only take one leg!"
Ciro looked at Elara. For a second, the mask tilted.
"Do you trust me?"
Elara looked at the Prince who wanted to break her. Then she looked at the abyss that promised death.
She tightened her grip on the Jester's bloodstained gloved hand.
"Jump," she whispered.
Ciro grabbed her waist and vaulted over the railing.
They plummeted into the grey void. The wind screamed in their ears, swallowing the sound of the wedding bells.
As they fell into the darkness, away from the light of the kingdom, Elara saw something glowing on Ciro's belt—not a bell, but a strange, ancient device pulsing with blue light.
And then, the world turned to ash.