Jingle.
Chime.
Jangle.
Ding.
The bells of Duman's attire sang down the halls, their merry melody at odds with the chains that rattled at his wrists and ankles. Their magic pressed like hot iron against his skin, a leash disguised as ornamentation. He was escorted through the grand corridors, marble pillars stretching toward the vaulted ceilings like the ribs of some great beast.
At last, the towering doors loomed before him. The guards hesitated, hands tightening on their spears, as if expecting him to bolt. Duman merely smiled, sharp as a knife's edge, and stepped forward.
The doors groaned open.
The chains dropped—and in bounded the fox.
A streak of black and l pink darted down the long red carpet, a blur of fur and flickering light. Mid-leap, the fox unraveled, his body stretching, twisting, breaking apart into a chaos of golden sparks. A heartbeat later, the jester tumbled into existence, flipping through the air like a puppet freed from its strings.
The bells on his costume chimed with every twist, an eager accompaniment to his acrobatics. He landed in a perfect one-handed balance atop a gilded brazier, its flames licking dangerously close but never burning him. With a flick of his wrist, a deck of cards appeared, scattered like autumn leaves. They spun and fluttered through the air—until suddenly, they weren't cards at all.
Doves burst forth, white wings beating against the stunned hush of the court.
Laughter. Murmurs. Delighted gasps.
Duman slid from the brazier, arms sweeping wide as the birds vanished in a mist of violet smoke. He staggered forward as if caught off balance—then caught himself at the last second, bowing with a flourish that danced the line between reverence and mockery.
His grin, wicked and knowing, lifted to the throne. To Ogron.
"My king," he purred, voice rich as spiced wine. "You honor me with such an exquisite stage. Tell me, should I amuse, astound, or arouse terror in your court today?"
Ogron was watching him with something close to indulgence, lounging on his throne like a man admiring a particularly fine caged bird. His chin rested lazily on his knuckles, blue eyes gleaming in the torchlight.
"Why, Duman," he drawled, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "A jester should know his role is to do all three."
Duman clutched his chest as if struck, staggering backward. "Oh, my liege wounds me!" His bells jingled with every exaggerated step. "To demand so much of one poor fool—" He spun, his body unraveling again, this time into a blur of dark feathers.
A raven cawed, wings cutting through the air as it dove toward the throne. Gasps rose through the court, hands lifting to shield faces—then, in a swirl of mist, Duman reappeared, perched atop the armrest of Ogron's throne, chin resting lazily on his hands.
"Once upon a time," he murmured, eyes alight with mischief. "There was a king who had everything—but the more he had, the more he wanted."
A ripple passed through the court. Ogron's smirk remained, but his fingers twitched—whether in irritation or amusement, even Duman couldn't quite tell.
Then—before Ogron could strike, before the moment soured—Duman tumbled backward, spinning into a somersault that sent sparks flying. He landed in a crouch, arms spread wide like a ringmaster revealing his grandest act.
The bells on his cuffs jingled, a sound almost like laughter.
"But you already know how that tale ends, don't you, my king?"
The silence stretched—then, with a snap of his fingers, Duman sent a cascade of violet firework-like sparks exploding toward the ceiling. The glow danced over gilded chandeliers and marble columns, illuminating the awe on the faces of the watching nobles.
The applause came all at once, rippling through the court like a wave. Nobles clapped, some even cheered.
Ogron chuckled, slow and indulgent, letting the praise settle over him like a fine cloak. His fingers drummed against the armrest where, just moments ago, Duman had sat.
"Oh, I do believe this suits you, my dear star."
Duman bowed, low and graceful, his bells ringing like distant wedding chimes.
"And I do so love to please."
A seal balancing horns, a monkey clanging cymbals, a tiger mid-prowl—Duman shifted between them all in a seamless dance of spectacle, the court roaring with laughter and applause at each transformation. A noble slurred out a request for a mermaid, his grin just a bit too eager, his eyes lingering in a way that made Duman's skin crawl. But the show must go on.
So, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, Duman dove into an invisible sea, his body stretching, twisting—legs fusing into an iridescent tail that shimmered beneath the candlelight. He flipped onto his back, tail flicking, a sultry smirk curving his lips. 'There. Happy, you lecherous bastard?'
Laughter. More claps. More demands.
A lion. A bear. A flurry of somersaults. A jest. A jibe. A twirl. A bow.
And then—a mistake.
It was slight, but it was there. His next landing wasn't as smooth. His knees threatened to buckle, his chest heaving just a little harder than before. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck, dampening the silk of his costume. Duman swallowed against the creeping tightness in his ribs, knowing—knowing—he was pushing too hard. His body wasn't made for this kind of prolonged, rapid shifting. Even he had limits.
Ogron noticed.
The king's smile curved upward, slow and knowing, a predator watching his prey begin to falter.
"Duman," Ogron drawled, tapping a lazy rhythm against the arm of his throne. "I've still an hour before my duties call me elsewhere. Surely, you don't mind continuing? We'd all love to see you keep burning little star."
Duman panted softly, but forced his smirk to remain, his bells jingling as he straightened with exaggerated ease. 'Oh, you bastard.'
He needed an out.
And so, he did what he did best—he turned the game on its head.
"Of course—anything for the good King Oggie!" Duman cooed, pressing a hand over his heart as if moved by the honor of the request. He tilted his head, gaze flickering to the throne. "Might we get a little more personal, my liege? I should like to be your favorite tinker toy amongst the shelves of men you collect."
Ogron's fingers twitched. His brow arched, just slightly.
The court laughed.
The praise came next—voices murmuring about how the king had tamed his newest pet, how entertaining he was. Ogron basked in it, his pride swelling, his need for control fed.
"Of course—" Ogron began.
Duman didn't let him finish.
With a sudden burst of movement—too fast, too close to reckless—Duman vaulted forward, landing before the throne, his fingers curling around a small doll resting on the king's right side.
The air shifted.
Silence rippled through the court like a held breath.
The doll was simple—soft brown buttons for eyes, dark chocolate yarn for hair. But its significance was anything but.
A doll of Anagan.
A creation from the early days, back when Ogron still played at tenderness, back when his love was something whispered instead of wielded like a weapon. A doll meant to soothe in Anagan's absence.
Duman's smile faltered for the first time.
But only for a second.
Then he grinned wider, and before Ogron could command otherwise, he changed.
His form shifted, and suddenly—there was another Ogron standing before the throne. A perfect mimicry, down to the smug curve of his lips.
The court gasped. Some chuckled nervously. Others whispered in delight at the audacity.
Duman—Ogron—snatched up the doll and twirled it in a dramatic waltz, bells ringing with every step.
"Oh, my esteemed court," he crooned, his voice a perfect, mocking imitation of the king's. "Certainly, I have shared the wonders of my most precious soul with you all?"
Gasps turned into outright laughter.
Duman spun the doll one last time, dipping it low, pressing it to his chest in mock anguish. "Ah, but what is a ruler without his heart?" His voice dropped to a whisper, sickly sweet. "A lonely, lonely king."
And then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted the doll to his lips—
—and kissed it.
Wet. Loud. Obnoxious.
The court howled.
Ogron did not.
His smirk vanished. His fingers curled so tightly against the throne that his knuckles went white. The sigils around him flared for the briefest moment—just long enough for Duman to register that he had gone too far.
His body screamed at him to drop the act. He was already spent, already on the verge of unraveling. If Ogron lashed out now, if he struck—
Duman's grin wobbled, just slightly, and he quickly held up the doll, tilting his head like a scolded child. "Ah—have I overstepped? A jest too far, my king?"
Ogron's jaw ticked. "Return him."
Duman flipped the doll once between his fingers, then placed it gently back onto its velvet perch. With a deep, sweeping bow, he offered a saccharine smile. "A thousand apologies, my liege! I fear I know not where the line is drawn, and so I stumbled over it—such is the curse of the fool." He clasped his hands together, lashes fluttering in faux remorse.
Ogron exhaled sharply, his patience a taut thread on the verge of snapping. "The show is over."
The finality in his voice made even the most oblivious of nobles stiffen.
The guards moved swiftly, chains rattling. Duman let them bind him, his arms suddenly so heavy, his body screaming for rest. His magic coiled tight inside him, unstable, too stretched, too spent.
Still, as they led him away, he couldn't resist one final flourish.
Duman cast one last look over his shoulder, lips curling despite the exhaustion sinking into his limbs.
"Oh, but what fun we had, my king," he purred, voice smooth as ever. "I do hope I was your favorite act."
The doors slammed shut behind him.