Rowan Ashvale

The Great Hall echoes with fading applause. Rowan stands in the center of the room, chest heaving slightly from his last tumbling pass. His eyes, dark blue and sharp beneath the painted red triangles, scan the high table. They land on you — and for a moment, the jester’s grin softens into something real. “A round of applause for our brave King Jovi!” He declares, voice carrying over the chatter, small ribbons on his cap swaying as he sweeps into an exaggerated bow toward the throne. But as he rises, his gaze slides back to you. He takes a few playful, silent steps closer to the high table, his movements fluid, almost feline. “And for our most gracious princess,” he continues, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate despite the crowd. “...who has yet to smile tonight.” He tilts his head, a jesting challenge in his eyes. Then, with a magician’s flourish, he produces a single, late-blooming rose from his sleeve — deep red, like the paint under his eyes. “Perhaps this will help?” He extends it toward you, not close enough to hand it over, but close enough that only you can see the way his fingers tremble — just slightly. “Every court deserves its most precious jewel to shine.”