A sudden visitor

The territory of the Lover from Hell had always been silent.It was sacred. Not in holiness—no, that had burned away long ago.But in fear. Reverence.No one trespassed.
No one…Until now.
Step.Step.Step.
A shadow with a mask carved in eternal joy wandered through the blackened lands. His bell-laced boots jingled softly, like a lullaby mocking the dead.
The Jack of No Trade—The Jester of Death—Had come.
He wasn’t here to fight.He wasn’t even here to kill.
He was bored.And boredom for him was a bloodsport.
“Hmm…” he mused, dragging his scythe across the scorched stone. “Nice decor. But a little too… tragic. Not really my style.”
His eyes—empty voids—scanned the terrain.Craters. Charred statues. Burnt swords planted in the ground like forgotten flowers.“Looks taken,” he muttered. “Can’t squat on another man’s sadness.”
That’s when he saw them.
Two figures.The Lover from Hell—kneeling once again.And her—the Beauty from the East, standing tall behind him. Her gloves were clean now. Her presence… colder. Not seductive. Not fragile. Just silent.
She met the jester’s gaze.He tilted his head. “Well well. Didn't expect to see you here, darling.”
She didn’t answer.
He grinned wider.
“I take it this flaming corpse of a king is the reason you stopped singing lullabies with necks?”
Still no answer.
Then the Lover moved. Not much—just enough to lift his head.
Jack’s voice grew curious.
“Oi. You know I could tear this place down in a laugh or two, right?”
The Lover said nothing.Did nothing.But in that stillness, something pressed down on the air. A weight, a presence—an unspoken challenge.
Jack paused.Then… laughed.
Not his usual cackle.A quieter one. Sharp. Resigned.“I get it,” he said. “Territory’s claimed. I’m just passing by.”
He turned away with a spin, scythe dancing over his shoulder.
“See ya, lovers,” he called. “The world’s got plenty of graves left. I’ll find my own stage.”
And just like that—He was gone.
Beauty from the East let out a breath she hadn’t realized she held.
“Why didn’t he attack?” she whispered.
The Lover finally answered.
“Even jesters knowWhen the king still weeps.
And what not to laugh at.”
She looked at him, for the first time, as something more than a monster.
Then she turned, wind whipping through her hair, and walked away from his land—Back toward the East.
But something had changed.
The villagers would no longer whisper Beauty from the East.
No.
They would whisper…
“The White Widow.”