The Six of Cups

Clara stayed at the desk after Felix left, staring at the way the morning light caught the gold inlays of the library's reading tables. The glow danced across the battered quill. It should have felt like a clean wound, a sharp pain, something she could curse and mend. Instead, it ached everywhere—a slow bleed from inside her chest, making every breath heavier.

Clara thought she'd have the library to herself for at least a minute, but Lue didn't leave his post by the archway. He stood as if chained to the marble, arms folded tight, every part of him squared and formal. For several minutes, he let the silence build. Clara resented it; the hush forced her to listen to the rushing in her ears, the echo of every wrong answer and every word of disappointment Felix had pronounced.

It was Lue who broke first, though he did it in a way that one might open a locked box and find a snake inside. "Permission to speak freely, Your Highness?" he asked.

"Only if you're planning to tell me I'm not an idiot," Clara replied, resting her forehead on the cool wood.

He was silent so long she almost thought he'd left, but then: "You are not an idiot." Lue's voice echoed through the empty air.

Clara almost laughed, but it came out as a strangled, gutted sound. "But I'm not clever enough to pass a basic history exam, either." She dug her nails into her palm. "It's just—dates. Names. It shouldn't be hard. But every time I look at the page, it all slides off my brain like—like—" She could not finish the simile.

"It's not a basic exam," Lue said. "Felix tests the King's Guard on those topics every spring. Most fail, the first time." He paused. "Second and third, as well." He added.

Clara jerked her head up, blinking at him. "You failed?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lue's cheeks darkened, though he held her gaze. "I did not pass until my fourth year. The others thought it was a joke. But my father—he said that some people learn through their hands, not their eyes. That there is shame only in quitting." He explained, and then shifted his weight.

Clara let the words hang, unsure if he was lying to comfort her. But Lue's face was grave as ever, and she realized he'd probably never lied to her in her life.

Clara looked back at the quill, then at the stack of failed papers. "If I quit, it means someone else gets the throne. Someone who probably knows all the dates and names and the right way to pronounce 'leviosa' without sounding like a donkey." She stared at the ring on her finger, turning it back and forth, the green stone catching the sun. "Or maybe someone whose finger isn't turning blue."

"You did not ask for the ring. Or the test. Or the title." Lue stepped forward, hesitated, then set a gloved hand on the table. His presence was solid, fortress-like.

Clara swallowed, fighting the pressure building in her throat. "Doesn't matter. I'm going to have to earn it anyway. Otherwise, everyone will say the gods picked the wrong princess." She shook her head, breathing shallow and quick. "Maybe they did." She muttered in a whisper. Remembering the day she was chosen, the disappointment in her father's eyes that Atlas was not the one chosen. Atlas himself had been more bitter and cruel ever since.

Lue did not reply, only stood there. There was a comfort in his silence.

But then Lue said, "You are braver than your brother. And smarter than any noble I have guarded. Most would have thrown that exam at Felix's head and run away." He said firmly.

Clara wiped her sleeve across her nose, eyes burning. "I thought about it," she said.

"Then you're smarter still, for not doing it," Lue replied.

She let herself laugh. It felt ugly and uneven, but a relief. "I think my options are either 'cry' or 'vomit.' Which is less embarrassing, Lue?" She asked and resisted a sniffle.

Lue considered, solemn as ever. "Both are honest. But you would clean the table after vomiting. You'd pretend the tears never happened." He responded with a small sigh.

"You know me too well." Clara managed a weak smile.

"Someone approaches." Lue's gaze shifted to the doors behind her, then back.

"If it's Felix, tell him I've converted to Meridia and will be living at the bottom of the ocean." Clara straightened, knuckles whitening around the edge of the desk.

Lue allowed himself the faintest flicker of amusement. But it faded instantly as heavy footsteps rang on the marble, measured and slow, impossible to mistake.

Zarek Starforge strode into the library as if it were a council chamber: tall, still half-armored, the wolfskin mantle making his shoulders broader, his expression unreadable. In the morning sun, he looked less like a predator and more like a man who had forgotten what warmth was.

Zarek did not bow. Instead, he stood just inside the threshold, watching the scene with a silence almost more oppressive than Lue's.

Clara wiped her face and made herself sit straighter. "Let me guess. You heard I failed my magic test and wanted to gloat." She asked, though she wasn't sure why Zarek was here of all places.

Zarek's gaze flicked to Lue, then to her. "I do not gloat," he said. "But I had business in the archives. I saw the exam on Felix's desk. Your handwriting is… distinctive." There was no malice in it. Only a calm, steady certainty.

Lue shifted, body angling subtly between Clara and the Duke.

"Sir Lue. I need a word with the princess, in private." Zarek addressed him directly.

Lue's mouth was a hard line. "The princess is not to be left alone. Orders from the King." He replied simply.

"Then you may stand outside the door. Or, if you prefer, listen from behind the stacks. My intent is only to speak, not to bite." Zarek's lips twitched, just at the corners.

Clara saw the tension in Lue's posture, but he looked at her for guidance.

Clara waved a hand. "It's fine. If the Wolf of the North eats me, Father can find a new heir who's better at exams." She didn't mean it, not really, but the words were easier than asking for privacy.

Lue considered, then nodded. He gave Zarek a long, even look, then walked to the door and closed it behind him. Clara heard the click of his boots, then there was silence.

Clara let her arms flop onto the desk. "Go ahead. Tell me I'm unfit for the throne. Everyone else is thinking it." She stated, then looked at the sugar cubes on the desk. The pixie had left, and the light went out. She didn't care to bribe the pixie right now.

Zarek remained standing, hands clasped behind his back. He studied her for a long time, long enough to make her fidget. Only then did he speak: "I do not care for tests. Or for the opinions of men who grade them." He looked at the papers, then at her. "But I do know how it feels to fail." He added after a moment.

Clara looked up sharply, her emerald gaze meeting his ice blue orbs. "You? Fail?" She responded in surprise.

Zarek's face gave nothing away. "My father died when I was sixteen. The council declared me too young to be a leader. They kept the title from me for two winters, and the province nearly starved before I could take it back. The first time I called a muster, only a quarter of the men answered. The second, fewer still." He moved closer to the table, voice even. "No one tells you how many times you will fall before you stand." He explained as he loomed over her.

Clara met his gaze. There was no pity in it, only understanding, cold and honest.

Clara was silent for a moment., "Did they ever stop laughing at you?" She asked, turning herself in her chair towards him slightly.

Zarek shook his head, a single slow movement. "They never started. The North does not laugh at failure. It buries it and waits for spring." He replied.

Clara let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I don't want to be Queen." She admitted and looked down.

"Then don't be," Zarek said it flatly, but his eyes softened, just a little.

Clara wanted to believe it was that simple. She had no choice, since the gods had chosen her. She can't go against the gods; she'd be cursed, more so than she is now. She traced the edge of her ring, the cold metal a comfort.

"Why are you here, Zarek?" Clara asked after a minute.

Zarek hesitated, and it was the first time she'd seen him uncertain. "I… wished to know if you were well. The ring—" He broke off, jaw working.

Clara waited, refusing to fill the silence for him.

Zarek exhaled. "You are not the first to wear a Starforge bond. The magic is ancient and cruel. It does not care if the wearer is willing. It only cares that they survive." He explained. Though that did not answer her question.

Clara felt the ring pulse on her finger, the band just tight enough to remind her of its presence. "I don't want to lose my hand," she said, then realized how childish it sounded. "I don't want to lose anything. Not my future, not my choices, not—" She shook her head.

Zarek leaned on the table, so close she could smell the faint tinge of winter on his clothes, the spice of oiled leather. "Then you will not," he said.

Clara blinked, caught off guard by the certainty. "It's not that simple."

"It is, actually," he replied. "I have seen men cut off their own arms for less. You have survived every test they set for you. You will survive this, too." He let a long silence build, then said, "I did not come here to threaten you, Clara. I came because I know what it is to be alone, surrounded by people who call it destiny." He stated as he gazed down at her.

"You make it sound like you chose all this." Clara's throat hurt, but she fought to keep her voice steady.

"No one chooses. But some refuse to be chosen." He shrugged, the movement barely visible.

Clara found herself staring at the ring again, then at Zarek's hands: one gloved, the other bare, thickened by old scars. She wondered how many times he'd had to fight for what he wanted.

Clara bit her lip, then asked, "What did you do when everyone doubted you?"

Zarek's eyes glinted, ice-bright. "I made them regret it." He replied straightforwardly.

Clara laughed then, the sound sudden and sharp and so unlike her that she had to slap her hand over her mouth.

Zarek allowed himself a brief, wolfish smile. "If you wish, I can teach you how." He offered.

Clara lowered her hand, her cheeks hot but her heart lighter. "What, how to terrify an entire room with one look?" She responded as she looked up at Zarek again.

"Or one word." He inclined his head.

Clara grinned, for the first time since she failed her test. "My mother says I'm better at the former." She responded.

There was a companionable silence then, the first she could remember sharing with anyone in months.

Zarek straightened. "If you want to remove the ring, I will do it myself. There are ways, old ways. They will not cost you more than pain." He said it like a promise.

Clara looked at her hand, turning it so the green stone caught the sun again. She thought of Celia, of her mother, of the hissing rumors that already buzzed through the castle. Then she looked at Zarek, really looked.

"I'll keep it," she said. "For now. It's ugly, but so is most of my life right now." She hesitated, then added, "But if I change my mind—"

"I will help you," he said, and she believed it.

Zarek bowed, then turned to leave, but paused at the door. "If you want to pass your next test, study the forbidden sections. They are the only ones worth knowing." Then he was gone, boots silent on the marble.

Clara sat back, and the ache in her chest lessened.

Lue poked his head around the door, cautious. "Are you harmed?" He questioned.

Clara shook her head. "No, Lue. Not harmed." She replied as she looked over at Lue, who had just entered and stepped up to her again.

Lue glanced at the spot where Zarek had stood. "Did he threaten you?" He looked at Clara.

Clara smiled, for real this time. "No. He just reminded me that I'm not made of glass." She answered him with a nod.

"He would be wise not to underestimate you," Lue grunted, but his eyes softened.

Clara flexed her bruised finger, wiggling it until the ring shifted and caught a stray sunbeam. "Next time," she said, "I'm going to break the curve."

Clara gathered her failed test, her dignity, and her battered hope, and left the library with her guard at her side and a new sense of resolve burning like a fire in her chest.