The Prince of Peculiar Plights

The Jester's Secret

Valerian stared at the door where Master Leontius had vanished, his heart performing a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The silence in the conservatory was heavy, smelling of ozone and spilled ink.

“A catalyst,” Valerian whispered, finally letting his arms drop from Isolde’s waist. He felt cold the moment the full contact broke. “He makes it sound like I’m a bomb and you’re the fuse.”

Isolde brushed a stray hair from her face, her eyes fixed on the shattered mahogany desk. “Or maybe you’re the lightning and I’m the rod. Either way, your tutor is going to tell your father that I’m not just a ‘boring’ stabilizer. We don’t have much time before this place is crawling with Council guards.”

“You think they’ll arrest you?” Valerian asked, his voice tightening.

“Arrest me? No. They’ll study me. Or lock me in a room with you until we both go mad,” she said, her tone clinical yet underpinned by a sharp edge of worry.

A sudden, rhythmic thumping against the window made them both jump. A man in colorful, motley-patterned leather was perched on the stone ledge outside, grinning through the glass. He gestured frantically for them to open up.

“Theodric?” Valerian frowned, moving to unlatch the window. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be at the court rehearsal.”

Theodric Vexhall tumbled into the room with the grace of a cat, dusting off his sleeves. “Court is boring, Val. Besides, rumors of neon-colored pheasants and floating desks travel fast. I figured you’d be looking for a back door right about now.”

“The tutor went to find my father,” Valerian said. “We’re past the point of back doors.”

“Then it’s a good thing I found something better,” Theodric said, his expression shifting from playful to uncharacteristically serious. He looked at Isolde, then back to Valerian. “I saw her. In the Weeping District. The old woman from the stories. Elsinora.”

Valerian felt the blood drain from his face. “The witch? She hasn’t been seen in twenty years. People say she’s a myth.”

“Myths don’t leave trails of black salt and crows in the slums,” Theodric countered. “She knows about the Morcant line. I heard her muttering about a ‘vessel’ and a ‘shattered seal.’ If anyone knows why your magic turns things into glittery slime instead of fire, it’s her.”

Isolde stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “The Weeping District? That’s the heart of the lower city. It’s a maze of cutthroats and filth. We can’t just walk in there.”

“Which is why you’re going to look like peasants,” Theodric said, reaching into a satchel at his hip and pulling out two bundles of drab, coarse fabric. “Put these on. Lord Morcant, try to look less like you’ve never touched dirt in your life. And you, Lady Veyrana—try to look a bit more... harassed.”

*

An hour later, the transition from the pristine marble of the Morcant estate to the mud-slicked alleys of the lower city was jarring. The air here was thick with the smell of coal smoke, fried grease, and too many bodies packed into too little space.

“Stay close,” Valerian muttered, tugging at the collar of his rough wool tunic. The static was beginning to claw at his skin again, agitated by the sheer noise and chaos of the crowded market they were pushing through.

“I’m trying,” Isolde replied, stumbling as a porter shoved past them with a crate of chickens. “But the ground is literally moving under my feet.”

“It’s the magic,” Valerian groaned, his eyes flashing a faint, flickering orange. A nearby puddle began to vibrate, the muddy water turning into a shimmering, translucent violet. “Isolde, it’s happening. The noise... the people... it’s too much.”

“Valerian, look at me,” she commanded.

“I can’t focus,” he gasped, his hand twitching. “If I pop here, we’re dead. They’ll know exactly who I am.”

Isolde didn’t hesitate. She reached out and grabbed his hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

The effect was a physical shock. The violet tint in the puddle vanished instantly. The roaring in Valerian’s ears dropped to a dull hum. He let out a long, shuddering breath, leaning slightly into her.

“Is that better?” she asked, her voice low.

“It’s... it’s everything,” Valerian admitted, his grip on her hand tightening almost convulsively. “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I don’t plan to,” she said, though her cheeks were flushed. “But people are staring. Try to look like a couple, not two people clinging to a life raft.”

Theodric, walking a few paces ahead, glanced back over his shoulder and smirked. “Oh, look at you two. Very convincing. Young love in the ruins. It’s practically a poem.”

“Shut up, Theo,” Valerian snapped, though he didn’t pull away from Isolde. “Just find the witch.”

“We’re close,” Theodric said, leading them down a narrow staircase where the sun barely reached the cobbles. “The mural is just around this corner. Elsinora’s been seen tracing it at night.”

They stepped into a small, dead-end courtyard. The walls were crumbling, covered in layers of soot and old posters. But on the far wall, hidden behind a stack of rotting crates, was a painting that looked far too vibrant for the slums.

“There,” Theodric pointed.

Valerian and Isolde moved toward it, still hand-in-hand. As they cleared the debris, the full image came into view. It wasn't a typical mural. It was a complex web of geometric lines and swirling symbols, painted in a deep, metallic gold that seemed to catch the light even in the shadows.

Valerian’s breath hitched. “Isolde... look at the center.”

In the middle of the golden web was a figure of a man. His chest was bare, and etched across his skin was a pattern of jagged, lightning-like marks.

“It’s your crest,” Isolde whispered, reaching out with her free hand to trace the lines on the stone. “No, wait. It’s not just the crest. It’s the scars from your Awakening.”

Valerian pulled up the collar of his tunic, his heart hammering. “How? Nobody has seen these except my father and the healers. They’re supposed to be a side effect of the curse. A brand of failure.”

“Look at the text underneath,” Theodric urged, his usual banter gone.

The letters were written in an ancient, flowing script that Valerian could only partially decipher. Isolde, however, leaned closer, her brow furrowing as she read the archaic characters.

“‘The vessel shall hold the chaos until the key is turned,’” she translated softly. “‘Not a cage for the broken, but a sheath for the blade.’”

Valerian felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “A sheath? Isolde, what does that mean?”

“It means your family lied to you, Val,” Theodric said, crossing his arms and leaning against the opposite wall. “A curse is something you suffer through until it kills you. A sheath is something you use to carry a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Valerian looked at his hands, which were still held firmly in Isolde’s. “I turn soup into glitter and desks into projectiles. What kind of weapon is that?”

“A dormant one,” Isolde said, her eyes fixed on the mural. She turned to look at him, her expression a mix of fear and realization. “Valerian, think about what Master Leontius said. The magic doesn't just dissipate when I touch you. It grounds. It concentrates.”

“You’re saying I’m not unstable,” Valerian said, the idea feeling heavy and strange in his mind. “You’re saying I’m... unfinished?”

“I’m saying the Morcant curse might not be a punishment at all,” Isolde replied. “It might be a power that was never meant to be used alone.”

Suddenly, the air in the courtyard grew unnaturally cold. A shadow stretched across the mural, though there was no sun to cast it. From the darkness of the alley they had just exited, a raspy, melodic voice drifted toward them.

“The girl has the right of it,” the voice croaked. “But a blade without a hilt only cuts the hand that holds it.”

Valerian spun around, pulling Isolde behind him. His hand was still locked in hers, and he could feel his magic surging, no longer a chaotic buzz, but a focused, sharp heat that made the air around his knuckles shimmer.

“Elsinora?” Valerian called out into the dark.

A woman stepped into the dim light. She was wrapped in tattered silks of a dozen different colors, her hair a wild silver mane. Her eyes were milky, but they seemed to see right through him—and more importantly, right through the connection between him and Isolde.

“The Morcant boy and the Veyrana anchor,” the witch cackled, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. “Finally. I wondered if I’d live to see the gears click into place.”

“What is this mural?” Valerian demanded, his voice echoing in the small square. “Why does it show my marks?”

“It’s not a mural, boy,” Elsinora said, stepping closer. “It’s a manual. And you’re only on the first page.”

She pointed a crooked finger at the golden lines. “They told you that you were a disaster. They told you that you were a glitch in the divine order. But they forgot to tell you the most important part.”

“Which is?” Isolde asked, her grip on Valerian’s hand tightening.

The witch’s grin widened, revealing missing teeth. “The world isn't afraid of you because you’re broken, Valerian Morcant. It’s afraid of you because you’re the only thing that can actually break the world.”

Before Valerian could respond, a loud crash echoed from the main street—the sound of armored boots and the rhythmic clatter of the Queen’s Guard.

“They’ve found us,” Theodric hissed, drawing a short blade from his belt. “We need to move. Now!”

“Wait!” Valerian yelled at the witch. “Tell me more! How do I control it?”

“You don’t control a storm, boy!” Elsinora laughed, fading back into the shadows of the alley. “You just decide where it hits! Follow the gold! Find the Forge of Veils!”

She vanished into the darkness just as the first of the guards rounded the corner, their silver breastplates gleaming.

“Lord Morcant!” the lead guard shouted. “By order of the Council, stand down! The girl is to be taken into custody immediately!”

Valerian felt a surge of protectiveness so fierce it made the static in his blood roar like a furnace. He looked at Isolde. She looked back at him, her eyes steady, her hand never wavering.

“They’re not taking you,” Valerian whispered.

“Then I suggest you stop being a mountain,” she replied with a small, daring smirk. “And start being a weapon.”

Valerian turned toward the guards, his eyes glowing with a brilliance that outshone the torches. The ground began to hum, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to stop it. He just held Isolde’s hand and let the world start to shake.