The Emperor of Gladness (by Rebecca Yarros)

The Emperor of Gladness

“He ruled with laughter, but silence held his crown.”

No kingdom was brighter than Solari, and no ruler more adored than Emperor Calros the Glad.

His golden banners fluttered over rooftops carved from sunshine marble. Musicians played in courtyards from sunrise to dusk, and jesters were as revered as priests. It was said that Calros could lift sorrow with a single smile. His people never feared famine, for joy was considered nourishment. His guards did not wear armor, but robes stitched with yellow silks and sunflower threads.

And yet, no one had heard the Emperor speak.

Each morning, Calros emerged onto the Rose Balcony to greet his people with a radiant grin. His smile was wide and warm, his nods graceful, but his lips never moved with sound. Not even a whisper. Instead, his laughter echoed magically from unseen corners, a melodic chime that drifted like perfume across the capital.

The court called it divine. The commoners believed it a miracle. Some whispered it was a curse.

Only three people truly wondered: Lady Brenya, the Emperor’s advisor; Jorin, the boy who swept the palace halls; and Arlo, the old jester who once saw Calros flinch at a child’s laugh.

One evening, Brenya visited the Emperor’s private garden—a hidden grove where the lilies bloomed only under moonlight and the fountains flowed with sparkling rosewater. Calros stood at its center, as still as a statue, staring into the water’s reflection.

“Sire,” she said gently. “The council worries. Not of your silence, but of its weight.”

He turned, offering the same impeccable smile.

“Your people cheer, yes, but they do not speak their sorrows. They fear breaking your joy.”

Calros walked forward, lifted her hand, and kissed her fingers lightly. Not a word. But his eyes—they shimmered with something unspoken. Was it sadness? Or gratitude?

Later that night, Jorin, sweeping beside the throne dais, found a locked drawer behind the emperor’s seat. Inside, only a dusty, leather-bound journal. Faded ink sprawled across its pages like spilled tea:

"I was a child of sorrow before they crowned me king. My laughter is a mask stitched by the gods. If I speak, the illusion dies."

Jorin snapped the book shut. The silence of the room deepened.

He never told anyone.

Weeks passed. The Emperor hosted the Festival of Joy, his grandest celebration. Colored smoke filled the air, and dancers floated across marble bridges like petals in wind. Calros watched it all from his golden throne—smiling, always smiling.

Then, something unexpected happened.

A girl from the outlands—barefoot, with tangled braids and soot on her cheeks—walked past the guards and approached the Emperor. No one stopped her. The crowd fell into stunned silence.

“Why don’t you laugh with us?” she asked.

Calros blinked.

She reached for his hand. “It’s okay if you’re sad sometimes.”

For the first time in years, his smile faded.

A gust of wind passed through the square. The musicians stilled. The air was sharp with anticipation.

Then, something extraordinary: Calros opened his mouth.

And sang.

Not a song of joy. Not a hymn of celebration. But a quiet, trembling melody—low, soft, full of aching beauty. His voice cracked like glass, rough and unsure, as if it hadn’t been used in decades.

The girl listened. The people wept.

That night, the Emperor’s laughter did not echo from invisible places. Instead, the people heard his true voice—fragile and imperfect, but real.

The next day, the banners were taken down. Not in mourning, but in humility. Calros declared that silence would no longer be feared. A new hall was built in the center of Solari—not for entertainment, but for listening.

In that hall, anyone could speak. And the Emperor would sit among them, not above them.

He still smiled, but now his eyes matched the curve of his lips.

The spell was broken. Or perhaps, finally fulfilled.

Years later, Jorin, now a scholar, would write of that day:

"We once believed joy meant hiding sorrow. But the Emperor taught us the truth—real gladness is the light that shines even when you name the dark."

And so, though his name faded from scrolls and monuments, Solari remembered him—not as the man who ruled with joy, but as the man who dared to be silent… until he chose to speak.