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C L O W N


Notes

His feet know bare, burning sand better than cool stone, and his hands are never still. In his eyes there is a sadness none dare ask after.

His old kingdom swallowed by the desert, his new one churning like waves in a storm, the trickster prince tells jokes and wears golden boots and dreams of gemstone spires and sandstone palaces.

He cuts his way out of the minotaur's throat and spits. It is a horrible rebirth, but there he stands, bloodied and stubborn.

No longer an heir, but the king.


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