The iron gates of Warlord Maren's fortress were taller than any door you can ever see.
Chris walked through them in chains with twelve other slaves, and the first thing that happened was a guard shoved him face-first into the mud.
Chris spat dirt and said, "Careful, I cry really hard, nobody wants that show before dinner."
The guard didn't laugh. But a slave behind him did. And something flickered in Chris's chest.
Warmth. Small and strange, gone before he could name it.
'Interesting.'
They sorted slaves in a stone room.
Fighters to the pits. Laborers to the quarries. Chris got the jester's cage, which was apparently where you went when you had a sharp mouth and a skinny frame. An old clerk with ink-stained fingers marked his forehead with white chalk
the sign of a court amusement.
Chris touched the chalk on his brow. "Does this come in red? To match my eyes."
The clerk snorted. That warmth again, stronger this time. Not in his chest , in his bones. Like standing near a fire after weeks of cold.
He filed the feeling away.
Something to figure out later, if later happened.
The holding pen held twenty slaves and about six feet of personal space between all of them
combined. Chris found a spot against the back wall and was there for maybe thirty seconds before a
massive scarred fighter planted himself in front of him. GUNT. That was the name the others whispered.
"Bread ration," Gunt ordered.
Chris looked up at him. "Come on, You look like you've already had mine and three other people's."
Gunt didn't laugh. He punched Chris in the ribs. The blow landed clean and hard, and Chris folded
against the wall, gasping.
But two slaves nearby snickered. And the warmth spread through Chris's bruised side like balm. Not healing but Dulling. Making the edge of it softer.
He breathed. Stood up straight. The pain was still there, just... further away.
'Huh.'
He couldn't sleep that night. His ribs ached where Gunt had hit him.
The stone floor was cold enough to make his teeth click. He stared at the ceiling and whispered jokes to himself . about the fortress, about the guards, about anything that came to mind.
Nobody heard or laughed.
The warmth didn't come.
From the far corner, a voice: "You feel it, don't you? The feed."
Chris jerked his head toward the sound. An old man sat in the darkness . thin and hunched, with shadowed eyes that caught no light. HARSK. He'd been in the pen before Chris arrived, and Chris
hadn't noticed him once. Which was strange, because Chris usually notice everything.
"The feed?" Chris said.
Harsk didn't answer. He melted back into his corner like the dark had swallowed him.
Chris stared at the corner for a long time.
'What the hell was that.'
Deep night. A guard walked the aisle with a torch, checking cells, looking bored and mean in equal
measure. Chris called out from behind the bars.
"Nice torch. Did you pick that yourself, or did someone have to order you around when it comes to the big decisions?"
The guard stormed over, torch raised, face twisted. But behind Chris, three slaves burst out
laughing .
And the warmth EXPLODED in
Chris's chest.
Not just a bit . A detonation.
His bruised ribs stopped hurting entirely. For five full seconds,
there was no pain at all. His body felt light and sharp.
The guard, confused by his own
hesitation , his arm was raised but something was holding it back .
he turned and walked away cursing.
Chris sat in the dark, heart pounding, hands shaking.
'What am I.'
Dawn. Roll call in the slave yard. A PITMASTER named CRELL distributed rations.
Chris got half a portion.
"Jesters don't need full bellies to dance," Crell said without looking at him.
"Hard to dance with no energy," Chris said. "But I guess your personality already proved that
point."
The surrounding slaves erupted.
a real laugh, loud and involuntary. And Chris felt strength flood his limbs. A cup slipped from someone's hand three feet away and Chris
caught it without thinking . he didn't even look, his hand just got there at the right time.
He stared at the cup in his hand. Put it down. Flexed his fingers.
Stronger. Faster. More aware. The power was physical.
They dragged him to the training yard to watch the exhibition fighters.
Maren's gladiators. killers
who fought for the warlord's entertainment and nothing else.
Commander VOSS oversaw training.
His Iron Face gleamed faintly along his jaw as a fighter's fist bounced off his reinforced chin. The fighter
screamed and clutched his broken hand.
Chris watched Voss's skin turn gunmetal gray where the fist had landed. Iron. Actual iron.
"That's not a human" Chris whispered.
The jester's preparation room was a closet with face paint and a set of bells. A servant stood in the
doorway with the expression of someone delivering bad news to someone who already knew it was
bad.
"You perform tonight," the servant said.
"What happens if I'm not funny?"
The servant paused. "The last jester wasn't funny. Commander Voss used him to test a new
gauntlet."
Chris sat on the stool. The bells sat on the shelf. They were stupid looking things . brass,
oversized, the kind of noise makers you'd put on a child. He picked them up. Fastened them around
his wrists. They jingled.
He looked at himself in a cracked mirror. White chalk on his forehead. Bells on his wrists.
He put on the face paint. Smiled at the mirror.
The great hall was bigger than any room Chris had been in. Warlord Maren sat on the high seat,
face blank and watching. The court filled the tables . officers, nobles, fighters, all of them talking over each other and ignoring the skinny kid who'd stumbled in wearing oversized bells with face
paint smeared across his cheeks.
Chris tripped. On purpose. Fell flat on his face, bells jangling, and the court laughed at him, not
with him, But the warmth roared through his body.
His ribs stopped aching. His tired legs found new strength.
He got up. Tripped again. Did a spin that turned into a bow.
The court laughed harder.
Then he improvised.
He straightened his spine, puffed out his chest, and walked like commander voss. The stiff shoulders. The rigid jaw. The slow, deliberate menace. He added the voice: "I am commander Voss. My face is made of iron and my personality is made of garbage."
The court HOWLED. Officers slapped the table. A woman near the back was laughing so hard she
had to put down her cup.
The warmth was a furnace now, burning through every bruise and ache in his body.
Voss's jaw clenched. His Iron Face flickered
Voss stood.
'I went too far. I went too far. I went too far.'
he crossed the hall in four strides. The laughter died. He grabbed Chris by the throat andlifted him one handed.
Chris's feet left the ground. The bells on his wrists jingled softly, absurdly.
The court was silent. The warmth was draining. No laughter, no power. Just a skinny kid with a hand around his neck and no air getting through.
Chris's vision was going gray at the edges.
Maren raised one finger.
Voss stopped. Dropped Chris. He hit the floor like a sack of wet grain.
"The jester stays," Maren said. Voice calm. "Amusements are scarce."
It wasn't mercy. Chris knew that while he was still gasping on the floor, rubbing his throat, feeling
the warmth fade as the court's attention shifted. Maren hadn't saved him. Maren had claimed him.
He got to his feet. Bells jingled. He bowed.
Voss looked at him woth hatred.
Chris looked right back and
smiled.
"Same time tomorrow?" Chris said.
Nobody laughed. Voss turned and walked away.