The Trial of the Jester

Cleo's eyes couldn't comprehend what was happening… Was she staring at Faithless, the one she thought was dead? Or at half of Krans' head lying beside her? As for the mayor, he was in a shock that no one would envy. His cigarette had fallen onto his hand and burned him, but he didn't even feel the pain.

"But… how? How are you alive? He stabbed you in the back and cut off your hand… how?!"

Cleo spoke with a trembling voice, barely audible, as if she were begging reality to lie to her.

The mayor's office was spacious, filled with shelves of old books, multiple chairs, and a polished wooden meeting table. Faithless slowly pulled one of the chairs and sat down, his gaze cold like a corpse submerged in ice.

"Cleo… didn't you say that bastard was finished? How did he survive?"

The mayor asked, his voice hoarse and distorted, like someone falling into a spiral.

"I… I don't know… How is he alive?"

Cleo replied as she instinctively backed away, as if her body was trying to escape against her will.

Faithless interlaced his ten fingers in front of his face, his head bowed. His smile was cold… terrifying… filthy. Suddenly, a black glow began swirling around him, reshaping his form as if the devil himself had decided to wear human skin.

A black Victorian-style top hat appeared on his head, a dark coat over a white shirt, its sleeves folded with terrifying precision. A monocle settled over his left eye, engraved with an ancient language that recited a dead history. His face remained stained in red and yellow, but now it looked… more enigmatic, as if the paint was trying to hide a mad past.

He slowly lifted his head. Black blood dripped from his mouth down to his chin, and his eyes burst into tears… of the same blackness.

This was no human scene. This was nothing that could be explained.

The mayor froze in place, and Cleo gasped silently. What stood before them was like a living nightmare.

Was this a being? A half-sovereign? A heretic? Or something else entirely?

Cleo pointed a trembling finger at him, speaking in a faint voice as if she were summoning a curse:

"Heretic… You're the heretic jester…"

The mayor's eyes widened, and he began to sweat profusely. The heretics were known for wearing monocles with unique engravings… they resembled none of the other classifications, and none resembled them.

Without hesitation, the mayor knelt, sobbing violently and begging like a lost child in a graveyard:

"O heretic jester, forgive me, please! I was nothing but a pawn controlled by powers far above me!"

Faithless didn't move… then said in a cold, calm tone:

"A pawn… can he change his fate?"

The mayor lifted his head in a stutter, looking at Cleo, then back at Faithless. He smiled in overwhelming fear, his mouth trembling:

"Y-Ye… Yes, he c-can ch-change his fate…"

Suddenly, Faithless screamed as he smashed the bookshelf with great force:

"Then why did you stay in the same cycle, you son of a bitch?! Huh?!"

The entire room shook, books fell like they were punishing him for lying.

The mayor was so terrified he thought his heart had stopped. Cleo wiped cold sweat from her face, leaning on the table like someone whose body was silently collapsing.

"I was forced! I'm a slave under the mercy of the kings… and the emperor… I do what they command…"

The mayor said with closed eyes and a faint voice, as if trying and failing to survive.

Faithless sat back down, crossed one leg over the other, placed two fingers under his chin, and tapped a third against his cheek. He stared at the mayor with the calm gaze of death.

"These words… I've heard them over and over. They've become slogans cowards like you hide behind."

"My lord heretic, we didn't—"

Cleo started to speak, but Faithless cut her off before the words could leave her mouth:

He raised his index finger to his lips and signaled for silence… then adjusted his monocle and whispered mockingly:

"Who allowed you to speak? A pawn moves by command… and I gave you none."

He stood up slowly and walked with heavy steps toward the mayor.

The latter was crying intensely, then threw himself to the floor and kissed Faithless' shoe, clinging to it like a pig:

"Please, I did nothing! Spare my life! I beg you, O great heretic…"

But Faithless grabbed his head and slammed it against the wall, forcing him to look directly into his eyes.

The mayor saw what could not be explained. He saw events that hadn't happened yet, heard the screams of people not yet born. He witnessed the moment of the Black Order leader's death… and inside him, time froze.

He collapsed to the ground. His body trembled, his eyes turned pitch black, as if he had touched madness itself.

Faithless turned to Cleo. She was clutching the table with all her strength, her knees trembling like she couldn't stand. When she saw what happened to the mayor, her mind almost broke.

He approached her, then crouched down slowly to her eye level. He spoke in a chillingly calm voice:

"Why? Why does everyone draw their blade and stab it into my back?

Is it because I'm kind?

No. I'm not kind…"

He paused for a moment, then continued in a soft voice, as if speaking to his own past:

"When the strong are betrayed, the traitor thinks he's done something noble… imagines he'll be rewarded… but the end? The end is always pitiful."

He closed his eyes and said:

"I don't prefer killing… every time I do it, I feel something inside me breaking.

That's why, I found a better way."

Cleo was staring at the bookshelf, avoiding his gaze, as if looking into his eyes would steal her life.

He grabbed her by the collar and gently sat her down on the chair.

Her eyes widened, thinking he'd decapitate her, but she saw no sword… only his steps backing away.

He walked behind the table, pulled a chair and sat down. He pulled out a wooden gavel, like those used by judges in courtrooms.

He crossed one leg over the other, and stared at Cleo, who was gripping her shirt as if to shield herself from death. Then he struck the gavel against the table.

He spoke with a mysterious tone:

"I'm not a judge… but sometimes, death is not the true punishment for your victims."

He rested his fist against his cheek, and looked at her through one eye, behind glass etched in the language of the dead:

"The Trial of the Heretic Jester… begins now."