The Six of Cups

The night air pressed cool and sharp, a relief after the stifling grandeur of the ballroom. Yet the silence between her and Zarek Starforge hung denser than the city's smog. He stood by the railing next to her, every inch of him sculpted in stillness, like a statue carved from the same pale stone as the balustrade beneath his hand. Only his eyes betrayed any life: pale, cold, reflecting the distant lanterns of the city as if he might commit each one to memory before snuffing them out.

Clara tried not to shiver. It wasn't the cold—it was the way the moment felt balanced on a knife's edge, every word capable of slicing either toward disaster or something infinitely stranger.

She pretended to be interested in the city lights. "Is it always so cold in the north, or is it just you?" she asked, wanting to fill the silence with something.

"It is colder. But the winds are honest, at least. Here, the chill is all in the politics." Zarek's mouth did not twitch, but something in his posture shifted—shoulders lowering, jaw relaxing by half a fraction.

Clara snorted, then instantly regretted it. She folded her arms, aware that her body language telegraphed every insecurity. She could feel the ring on her finger—impossibly, it throbbed, as if responding to his nearness.

"You keep looking at it," Zarek observed, tone neutral.

"Because it's stuck." Clara lifted her hand, palm outward, so the ring's green stone flashed in the torchlight. "I suppose you're about to tell me this is all terribly romantic. Two strangers, one cursed piece of jewelry, a future written by idiots who died centuries ago." She huffed, then glanced at him.

For a long moment, Zarek said nothing. He turned his gaze fully on her, and in the darkness his eyes were less icy than she expected—still cold, but with a depth behind the frost.

"No," he said. "Not romantic. But inevitable, perhaps." He replied simply.

The word dug at her more than any courtly insult. "That's supposed to make it better?" she spat.

Zarek's voice was hushed. "I don't think it matters what I say. You will hate me for this, and I will endure it." He pointed out. He knew Clara didn't want to get married, but the kingdom didn't care what she wanted. He cared for his people, and he knew the one way to help the North was with her. Unlike the other provinces, his province needed more resources, and sooner. He didn't have the funds, even as a duke; all of it was in his land, for his people.

Clara bit her tongue so hard it nearly bled. She felt the urge to run, to leap from the terrace and hide in the dark. Instead, she leaned back against the railings, the stone unyielding at her spine. "You could have said nothing, you know. You could have let the court spin their stories and gone back north with your honor intact." She stated bitterly.

Zarek shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "The ring would not allow it." He admitted. He also had his own goals in staying, but he knew what would have happened if he left.

She glanced down, remembering how it had burned that first night, the way her skin still prickled at the thought. "Why does it hurt?" she whispered.

Zarek moved closer. "Because it is not only a symbol. It is a piece of my family's old magic, meant to tie one house to another in blood and will. If the wearer refuses the pact, it will tighten, bit by bit, until the bond is either accepted… or the finger comes off." He said this with the calm of a man describing rainfall.

"Savage," Clara said, the word tasting like acid. She twisted the ring, and this time it did not move at all. The flesh beneath was reddened, almost bruised.

"In the north, we do not trust words. Only actions." Zarek's lips thinned, as if he found the custom as distasteful as she did.

A wind whipped around the tower, sending a strand of Clara's hair into her mouth. She spat it out, glared at the city, then turned on Zarek. "Is this what you want? A wife who loathes you? A royal alliance, sealed by mutilation or misery?" She asked as she ran her hands through her hair to get it out of her face.

Zarek's answer was immediate. "I want the north to survive the winter." He said it with a finality that silenced every protest she might have made. "I want the blight gone from my people's fields. I want the wolves back in their woods, not at our doorways. I want my mages to stop dying before they turn forty." Each sentence was a stone dropped at her feet.

For a moment, Clara could only gape. The image of the stoic northern lords, bred to war and hardship, crumbled in the face of what she now saw: a man with the weight of a dying province strapped to his back, willing to carry it through the worst humiliation if it bought his people a chance.

"Then why me?" she said, barely a breath.

"Because the ring chose you." Zarek closed the last of the distance between them, so close she could see the tiny white scar on his upper lip. "Because you are the heir, and because your line holds the last of the old blood." He leaned in, not quite touching, but close enough that his following words brushed her ear. "You are the only one who can break the curse." He whispered, almost pleading with her.

"That's convenient. It would have been nice if your ancestors had written that in the fine print." Clara tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat.

"They did not care for fine print." Zarek's tone, impossibly, was nearly gentle.

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the pulse of the ring in her bones now. "So what happens if I say no?" She asked and held her breath. She knew the answer.

"Then it will keep burning," he said. "And you will have to cut it off. My family has old tools for this, if it comes to that." He explained. It was a brutal yet straightforward answer.

Clara imagined the blade, the slick of her own blood on stone, and for a wild instant, she wanted it—wanted to bite off her own finger just to prove she would not be ruled by some ancient magic or man or fate. But the image of the north, the starving villages and sick children, wormed its way in too.

"You said you don't want to force me." She sagged against the railing, suddenly exhausted.

"I don't," Zarek replied. "But I will not leave you to hurt alone. If you choose, I will stand beside you. If not, I will help you bear the pain." He declared a promise that was true and sincere as the cold sting of winter.

It was such a strange offer, so utterly unlike the blandishments of every other suitor who had paraded through her mother's court, that for the first time in hours, she felt the icy grip of terror loosen. He was the first to see the pain.

Clara regarded Zarek, searching his face for any sign of cruelty or smugness. She found only resolve, and something softer, buried deep. "What if I want more than survival?" she said, so low she wasn't sure he could hear.

"Then I will try to give you that, too." He took her meaning instantly.

The ring on her hand was burning now, not with pain, but with something else—an awareness, a pulse that matched her own heartbeat. She did not want to think about what that meant.

Zarek stepped back, granting her space, and the cold air rushed in where his presence had been. For a moment, she almost reached for him. Almost.

"Goodnight, Clara," he said.

Clara did not respond. She watched him leave, the set of his shoulders as proud and battered as any soldier's, and only when his footsteps faded did she let herself breathe.

When she looked down at the ring again, it no longer seemed to glare. Instead, it sat on her finger like a dare—or a promise. She had never been good at backing away from either. She scowled for a moment, then sighed. It was so stupid in her mind. She hated fate; she hated the way things were. The choice was clear as day, and yet she wanted to rebel. The entire land of Sol was suffering, but the north had it the worst. She loved her mother and father, but things seemed to have been going downhill. Clara had no clue how to fix anything.

Then Zia's voice echoed from inside, catching Clara's attention and breaking her out of her thoughts. Clara returned inside. The crowd split like the sea, giving Clara room to walk.

"Thank you to everyone who has attended tonight's party," Queen Zia said, then motioned for Clara to join her.

Clara stepped up to the Dias, and looked out at the crowd. She spotted her siblings in the crowd. The only one she had spoken to that night was Celia, but she knew they were all taking their time to mingle with the visitors from all over.

Clara saw Celia still near Prince Eveon; they had spent most of the evening together, and Clara knew they were close. Eveon wasn't much older than them and had often visited Sol. Most of the suitors Clara had danced with had already left; she had disrespected and embarrassed most of them. But they deserved it. Clara then saw Zarek in the far back, still as a statue, his eyes just as cold as the north. Her eyes met his before she glanced away to look at her mother.

"Let us honor our guests and continue to forge alliances that will strengthen our kingdom," Zia spoke loudly and proudly. The crowd erupted with cheers, and glasses were raised in a toast.

"You did well tonight, Clara," Zia spoke in a softer tone just for Clara to hear. "Get some rest, you have a lot to do tomorrow," She added with a teasing tone and a slight smile.

Clara looked up at her mother again and blinked. Tomorrow? "I do?" Clara tilted her head, then

blinked again, and her eyes widened. "Oh crap," she said, covering her mouth, her voice came out louder than she intended. A few people from the crowd overheard her outburst. Her face turned as crimson as a fresh plucked cherry.

"A-ah, excuse me," Clara stuttered, then gave a bow to her mother before hurrying out of the ballroom. She wasn't going to get any rest tonight, since she had completely forgotten about the test tomorrow. Felix was not going to take it easy on her.