CHAPTER 58: THE JESTER

Alaric disappeared into the crowd, already rehearsing his aristocratic chin tilt like a soldier practicing sword forms.

I stayed a moment longer, watching the other students mill about the bulletin board.

Most of them were busy pinning their hopes and futures onto scraps of paper — fencing, debate, drama, all the usual suspects.

Clubs. Social ladders. Carefully arranged alliances.

It was all very... academy.

But out there, beyond these walls, a different kind of game was waiting.

One that had nothing to do with noble smiles and polite venom. One that was much more my speed.

The casino.

I left the academy behind and made my way down the lantern-lit streets of the city. By the time the academy towers were swallowed by distance, the world had changed.

I was going to the lowest level of the capital city, where all the shady business took place.

And when I reached, the air was thicker, carrying pipe smoke, perfume, and the low thrum of hidden music.

Carriages rattled past, painted with colors a little too gaudy for the nobles who pretended they didn’t visit this district.

The casino announced itself before I even saw it.

Laughter, shouts, the clatter of dice — a siren’s call for anyone who thought fortune could be tricked into sitting in their lap.

And there it was: a palace of glass and gold, glowing in the night like it had swallowed a sun. The doors were.

I stopped at the edge of the street, letting the glow of the casino wash over me. For a moment, I simply watched. Nobles, merchants, foreign traders — faces hidden behind masks of silk and smugness. Everyone here played a role.

But I couldn’t play mine.

Not as Loki. Not as the boy from the Academy.

My real name carried too much risk. If I stepped through those doors as myself, every move I made could be noticed by unwanted eyes.

And I couldn’t afford that.

Not tonight.

Because I wasn’t here for fun. I wasn’t here for drink, or cards, or the empty thrill of dice.

I was here because I needed money. And I needed a lot of it. Enough to outbid half the Empire if it came down to it.

An auction was coming soon. And among its treasures were two items I couldn’t allow to fall into anyone else’s hands.

Two items worth reshaping myself for.

I exhaled slowly, tearing my gaze from the glowing palace and slipping into the nearest alley. The noises of the street muffled behind me as the shadows closed in.

It was time to disappear.

Time for someone else to walk into that casino.

The alley smelled of damp stone and smoke. A perfect place to disappear.

I tugged the cloak tighter around me and crouched low, my bag already half open. The soft hum of Nyx’s voice echoed in my head.

"So... you’re really going to do it?"

"Of course," I whispered. "No one can know it’s me. Tonight, I don’t play as Loki. Tonight, the world meets someone new."

I drew the folded red suit from the bag. The fabric shimmered faintly under the flicker of a distant lamp, a color that looked equal parts wine and blood. Its threads seemed to drink the darkness around it.

Piece by piece, I dressed. Black gloves first, smooth against my fingers.

The crimson coat next, sliding over my shoulders like liquid fire. Finally, the mask: porcelain, bone-white, its mouth painted in an impossible grin.

The eye-slits were long and sharp, promising mischief—or malice.

But I wasn’t finished yet.

I pushed my fingers through my hair. Still the same shade—bright, unmistakable pink. A color anyone from the Academy could recognize in an instant. Too risky.

"Nyx," I murmured.

My shadow stirred. The air warped faintly around me, as though the night itself held its breath. A ripple ran through my hair, one strand after another, the color bleeding out like ink draining from parchment.

In its place came a dark, lustrous crimson, rich and dangerous, glowing faintly in the gloom.

I raised my head slowly, letting the new color catch what little light the alley offered. From pink-haired orphan to scarlet phantom.

My lips curved beneath the mask. Not that anyone would hear that familiar voice anymore.

"Change it," I whispered.

Nyx’s power coiled through my throat like smoke. When I spoke again, my own words startled me.

The boyish lilt was gone, stripped away. In its place was something lower, sharper, the kind of voice that belonged to gamblers who smiled at their enemies as they bled them dry.

"Perfect," I said, savoring the resonance. The single word fell heavy in the air, commanding.

For the first time, I saw the figure I had created reflected faintly in a cracked mirror hanging on the wall of the alley.

A man draped in crimson. A porcelain smile hiding his true one. A ghost with red hair and a voice no one could place.

I was now the Jester.

I tilted my head, testing the weight of the persona. My reflection tilted back, the painted grin unchanging, eternal.

This was no disguise. This was a rebirth.

And the timing could not be more perfect. The casino beyond those guarded doors would host the desperate, the arrogant, the greedy—all of them chasing fortune’s laugh.

But tonight, it would not be their laughter that echoed loudest.

No.

Tonight, the Jester would laugh.

And the world would never forget the sound.

***

The Jester stepped out of the narrow alley and into the night.

The lanterns lining the street burned soft gold, but their light bent strangely around him, as if even the fire didn’t know what to make of this figure.

His crimson suit caught the glow, bright and sharp against the dark stone road. His mask — a pale porcelain face with a wide painted grin — gleamed cold under the night air.

He walked slowly, hands tucked into his coat pockets, every step calm, measured, almost lazy. Yet there was something about his stride that made people move aside.

It wasn’t speed or strength — it was the weight of his presence, the kind of pressure that pressed against the back of your neck and whispered that you were standing too close to a storm.

Two guards stood at the entrance of the grand casino. The building towered above the street, its marble steps glowing in the lamplight, its tall glass windows alive with firelight, smoke, and shadows moving inside.

Music drifted out from violins, laughter, and the clink of glasses. Fortune itself seemed to hum in the air.

One of the guards stepped forward, frowning at the strange figure in red.

"Invitation," the guard demanded.

The Jester tilted his head. Slowly. The painted grin of his mask did not move, yet somehow it seemed to stretch wider in the silence.

His gloved hand slipped into his coat and pulled out a single coin. The metal caught the lantern light, bright and heavy with meaning.

He flicked it once into the air, caught it between two fingers, and pressed it into the guard’s palm.

"Consider this... my invitation."

The voice that came out was smooth and sharp at the same time — a sound that belonged to someone who laughed at daggers pointed at his throat.

The guard hesitated, then stepped aside.

The Jester laughed softly — a quick, broken sound, almost like a hiccup of amusement. Then he climbed the steps and pushed the great doors open.

The casino swallowed him whole.

Inside, the world was brighter, louder, more alive. Chandeliers hung like cages of fire, scattering gold across polished floors.

The walls were lined with mirrors, so that every smile, every frown, every desperate glance was repeated again and again until the room seemed full of ghosts. Smoke curled in the air, heavy with the smell of perfume, wine, and ash.

Roulette wheels spun. Dice rattled. Cards snapped across green tables. Coins clinked in hurried hands. Voices rose and fell in laughter and curses, all carried on the restless music of the orchestra.

And then the Jester entered.

The room felt it before it saw him. A ripple spread out, small at first, then growing. Conversation dipped.

A few gamblers turned their heads. A dealer paused mid-shuffle. Then, slowly, silence trickled from table to table, until even the orchestra’s bright notes felt uneasy, as if they too were waiting for the stranger in red to make his move.

He walked straight into the heart of the casino floor, moving like he owned every inch of it.

His crimson coat swayed with each step, his mask’s grin gleamed under the chandelier’s light, and the poker chip he had plucked from a tray spun across his knuckles like a toy.

When he reached the central table, he didn’t wait for an invitation. He pulled out the chair, spun it once on its leg, then sat down with a sprawling ease, leaning back, one arm thrown lazily across the rest.

The mask turned, surveying the room slowly, as though weighing the worth of every man and woman inside.

"Shall we play?"

The words rolled out smoothly, calmly, yet dangerously.

And in the mirrors lining the walls, the painted grin seemed to stretch across the whole room.