“This peach cobbler is delicious!”

  Qyngmi made the announcement with great enthusiasm to the kitchen staff, who rgely ignored him. That was fine. He wasn’t expecting appuse—just more cobbler. He leaned against the counter, taking another bite, eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss.

  This wasn’t how he had pnned to spend his day.

  With Princess Everburn and Lord Harriot off hunting, he had intended to put his free time to good use—gathering information, practicing his craft, maybe even stealing something shiny if the opportunity arose. But then he’d caught the scent of warm cinnamon and syrupy peaches wafting through the halls, and, well… pns changed.

  The kitchen staff had tolerated his presence for the same reason everyone did—he was technically Harriot’s, and Harriot had standing. That, and the castle’s usual entertainers were dull. He was much better company! So he had lingered, chatting with the cooks, stealing crumbs, and eventually securing himself a generous portion of what was, unquestionably, the best peach cobbler he’d ever had.

  Which made it all the more unfortunate when a guard stomped into the kitchen.

  “You,” the man barked, pointing a gloved finger. “Elf. You’re wanted in the throne room. The King requests your presence.”

  Qyngmi didn’t even look up. He just hummed in satisfaction, dragging his fork through the st golden fkes of crust. “Well, those are some words I never thought I’d hear strung together.”

  The guard scowled.

  “Fine, fine. Tell His Majesty I’ll be right there.” He pushed off the counter and stretched. “Just as soon as I finish digesting.”

  The guard crossed his arms.

  Qyngmi grinned. “Worth a shot.”

  And with that, he strolled past the kitchen staff—one of whom was polite enough to wave goodbye —and toward whatever awaited him in the throne room.

  *******

  The throne room of Everburn Castle was a monument to conquest. Every stone, every banner, every glint of gold told the story of a dynasty built not through diplomacy but through war. Weapons taken from defeated kings adorned the walls—ornate swords, shattered shields, crowns stripped from the unworthy. Massive tapestries stretched from floor to ceiling, each one depicting a different battle, a different victory, a different nation folded beneath the weight of Everburn steel.

  Qyngmi’s gaze flicked across the grand dispy until it nded on one particur tapestry. He recognized it immediately—the Elf War. It showed the Everburn forces riding triumphantly across a field littered with the broken bodies of his kind. The humans were cast in golden light, their banners high, their armor gleaming. The elves? Twisted figures, crumpled and faceless, little more than shadows beneath the boots of their conquerors.

  Qyngmi clicked his tongue and looked away. Best not to dwell.

  At the far end of the room, King Everburn sat upon his throne, watching him with that ever-impenetrable gaze. Silent. Unreadable.

  Qyngmi swept into a dramatic bow, his jester’s bells barely making a sound. When he straightened, he fshed his most charming smile.

  “Your Majesty! How may I serve?”

  King Everburn exhaled through his nose, resting his chin against his fist. “I’m bored,” he said pinly. “You were amusing st night at the feast. I was hoping you could do that again.”

  Qyngmi let out an exaggerated sigh, clutching his chest as if he’d narrowly avoided a death sentence. “What a relief! I thought you might be calling me here to finally tie up loose ends from that whole Elf War business a century ago.”

  The King chuckled—a low, dry sound. “Good start,” he mused. “But not what I had in mind.”

  Qyngmi arched a brow, a smirk pying at the corner of his lips. “Oh?”

  King Everburn waved a hand zily. “I want to see your tricks again. The sleight of hand.”

  Qyngmi tilted his head, genuinely surprised. “You enjoy magic tricks, Your Majesty?”

  The King gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I like what you can do.” He gestured to the armored guards stationed around the throne. “They liked it too. Indulge us.”

  Qyngmi flourished his hands, unching into a seamless dispy of sleight of hand. Coins vanished and reappeared behind ears, a dagger seemed to melt into thin air only to ctter onto the marble floor a moment ter, and a silk scarf changed colors midair before vanishing into his sleeve. He kept his patter lively, his grin wide, soaking in the quiet amusement that pyed on the King’s face. Even the guards, stoic as they were, watched with intrigue.

  When he finally finished, he spread his arms in a grand bow. “Your majesty, I am but a humble servant of mirth.”

  King Everburn smirked. “A fine dispy.” Then, he reached to his side, lifting an empty silver chalice and a bottle of deep red wine. He turned them over for all to see, proving them unmarked. Then, with the same easy amusement, he set them down before him. “Now, a challenge. Can you pour this wine into this chalice… without a single soul in this room seeing you do it?”

  Qyngmi hesitated, just for a breath, but the pause was enough. Something felt off. He was no stranger to dangerous games, but this? This wasn’t just amusement. There was an angle here, a hidden thread he couldn’t yet tug loose. Why this challenge? Why now?

  King Everburn watched him, unreadable as ever. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he pulled something from the folds of his robe—a small bag, the unmistakable clink of gold spilling into the air.

  “I didn’t take you for the type to doubt your abilities,” the King mused, tilting his head. “Not to worry. I’ve brought a bit of incentive.” He tossed the pouch forward. It nded at Qyngmi’s feet with a satisfying weight.

  Ah. A challenge to his pride and a promise of reward? That would do.

  The hesitation melted from Qyngmi’s face, repced by a slow, easy grin. “Well,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “far be it from me to refuse a good wager.”

  He reached for the pouch of gold, but not before quickly gncing at the chalice again. Whatever the King was pying at, he’d have to be sharp.

  Qyngmi bent down, fingers brushing the pouch of gold, letting the weight of it settle in his palm. “Generous, Your Majesty,” he mused, giving it a little bounce. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he straightened. “I do love a fair wager.”

  He made a show of untying the pouch, loosening the drawstrings with deliberate slowness. Gold coins glinted in the candlelight. He turned the pouch over, letting a few tumble into his waiting palm. “Ah, the sound of opportunity,” he sighed, rolling one between his fingers before flicking it up into the air. It spun, caught the light—

  And then everything happened at once.

  As the King and his guards instinctively followed the gold’s arc, Qyngmi’s free hand ghosted toward the wine bottle. A flick of the wrist, a twist of the fingers—and the cork was free. His other hand, the one everyone thought was still just pying with coins, casually fumbled, sending a few cttering to the floor.

  “Oops,” he said, tone thick with amusement. “Butterfingers.”

  All eyes flicked downward. Just for a breath, just for a moment. And that was all he needed to finish the trick.

  By the time they looked back up, Qyngmi was flipping the now-empty pouch closed, a devilish grin stretching across his face. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Done.”

  The chalice sat before the King, filled to the brim with deep red wine.

  A round of appuse broke out among the King’s guards, a rare, genuine dispy of appreciation rather than mere obligation. The sound filled the grand throne room, echoing off the stone walls lined with banners of conquest.

  Qyngmi flourished into a deep, theatrical bow. “If my esteemed audience has no objections,” he said, fshing a grin, “I’ll just collect my hard-earned reward from the floor.” He bent low, making a grand show of plucking up the scattered gold, each coin twirled between his fingers before vanishing into his sleeves.

  As he moved, King Everburn leaned back on his throne, his expression one of idle amusement. “Make sure everyone hears of the elf’s talents,” he told his guards. “With the way things are progressing between Lord Harriot and my beloved daughter, we may have need of his performances in the royal court more often.”

  Qyngmi dusted off his sleeves, the st few coins of his payment jingling as he tucked them away. The King was still watching him.

  “Tell me something, jester,” King Everburn said. “How did you come to serve Lord Harriot?”

  Qyngmi straightened, fshing his usual grin. “Ah, now there’s a tale,” he said, spreading his arms as if preparing to weave some grand legend. “A story of ambition, perseverance, and a great deal of sweeping.”

  The King merely raised a brow. The guards chuckled. Encouraged, Qyngmi continued.

  “I’m about a century old now, give or take a few dull decades. Back when I was just a boy, my mother and I lived in the forest—until, of course, the war came. You know how wars are.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Burning, pilging, all that enthusiasm for destruction. My mother was one of the casualties. I, meanwhile, was scooped up and given the great honor of scrubbing floors for some noble house.”

  His tone was light, conversational, but he kept an eye on the King’s reaction. Nothing yet.

  “Now, a lesser elf might have despaired. But me? I saw opportunity.” Qyngmi tapped his temple. “I learned quickly. Learned how to listen, how to move unseen, how to make people ugh when they needed it—and when they didn’t. A few generations passed, and eventually, folks decided elves weren’t so bad anymore. Just in time for me to be promoted from servant to entertainer. Quite the career trajectory, don’t you think?”

  The King let out a slow exhale that might have been amusement. “You’ve made the most of your circumstances.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Qyngmi gave a dramatic bow. “I am nothing if not adaptable.”

  The King smiled. A small, knowing thing. “Yes. I imagine you are. You’ve lived through much, haven’t you?”

  Qyngmi gave a dramatic flourish, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “And hope to live through much more, Your Majesty.”

  The King’s smile was slow, deliberate. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

  Qyngmi straightened, fshing his usual impish grin, but there was something in the King’s tone—something he couldn’t quite pce. It lingered in the air like the st note of a song, discordant and unresolved. But then the King waved him off, the moment passing as quickly as it had come.

  Qyngmi pocketed the st of his gold and sauntered toward the door, humming a merry tune to himself.