Crimson court

They called it the Crimson Court.Not because of blood, though there was plenty of that in its history—But because every noble dressed in red to mimic the royal house.
Red cloaks.Red carpets.Red wine.
They called it elegance.Jack would call it a target.
That night, the moon was full, and the ballroom glittered with chandeliers and chatter. The lords and ladies were halfway through a toast when the harps stopped.
No one saw how he got in.
But there he was, in the center of the ballroom, arms spread, head tilted, mask smiling—Jack of No Trade.
His scythe was slung across his back like a lute.He bowed as if greeting an old lover.
One of the nobles laughed, thinking it part of the entertainment.That laugh was the first to die.
“Welcome, welcome!” Jack chirped, voice like silk dragged across a coffin lid.“A dance? A drink? Or shall we play a game?”
The guards moved first—too slow.
With a graceful spin, Jack unslung his scythe and swept it across the floor. It didn’t cut flesh—it cut reality.Two guards vanished into thin air with a pop.
Another lunged at him—Jack vanished, reappearing behind the man with both hands over his eyes.
“Guess who?”Snap.
He skipped up the staircase, two steps at a time, humming a broken lullaby.
A noblewoman tried to reason with him. “What do you want? Gold? Power?”
Jack stopped. Looked at her.
Then leaned close.
“I want you to smile… just once… like she did.”
He shoved her off the balcony with a wink.
But he didn’t kill them all.No, Jack played.
He juggled wine glasses until one shattered midair—then caught the shards and flicked them into a duke’s face like darts.
He made nobles dance by pulling invisible strings tied to their limbs, laughing as they sobbed in rhythm.
He posed like a puppet master in the center of the carnage, spinning with glee as red cloaks soaked in real crimson.
The last survivor was the chancellor, hiding beneath the banquet table, praying in silence.
Jack sat cross-legged beside him, offering a piece of cake.
“Red velvet. Fitting, no?”
The man screamed. Jack laughed.
When morning came, the ballroom was empty.
No bodies. No blood.
Just a single card on the throne.
A jester.Grinning wide.
And beneath it:
“Try again.”