The Six of Cups

The hall beyond is bright and cold, stone floors gleaming and echoing every step. Standing outside her door, in perfect posture and already watching, is Lue. His armor is freshly polished, the silvered plates reflecting stray shards of sunlight from the tall windows. The ceremonial sword at his hip is both a badge of office and a warning, and he wears both with irritating ease.

"Lady Clara," he greets, giving her a nod just formal enough to remind everyone who the bodyguard is and who the princess is supposed to be.

"Sir Lue," she replies, squaring her shoulders as best as the dress will allow.

Lue falls in beside her, matching her mincing pace without visible effort. They walk in silence for a moment, the only sound the metallic whisper of his greaves and the soft scuff of silk.

Clara stares at the marble ahead, not ready to make eye contact. "So, how many hours of standing around and smiling do you think I'll have to endure today?"

"Today's court session is scheduled for three hours," Lue says. His tone is even, almost soothing like he's reading from a weather report.

"But with the current unrest among the farmers and the merchant guild, I would estimate closer to four," Lue says in an even, almost soothing tone. His words seem to echo the peacefulness of a weather report. 

Clara's face tightens, and her brows knit together. "Four hours," she repeats, drawing out the words as if each syllable were another link in her chain of misery. "Four hours of dusty old men with property maps, angry widows with grievances about grain tariffs, and those—" she lowers her voice—"those suitors from the provinces with their greasy hair and their daft poetry." She lets out an aggrieved sigh that seems to echo down the marble corridor. Her hands clench involuntarily at her sides, knuckles whitening through her sheer gloves.

She shoots Lue a sideways glance, hoping for some faint glimmer of solidarity, but his expression is set in its customary stone.

"I swear by every last wheezing god in the pantheon, if I have to listen to one more recitation about my 'emerald eyes' or the 'dawn-fire of my beauty,' I am going to leap out that window and let the gods decide who rules next." The threat is empty, and they both know it—the windows are fortified, and Clara is far too attached to her life comforts ever to attempt such drama—but saying it makes her feel marginally better.

"You are the heir, Your Highness," Lue says. He glances at her, gray eyes sharp and not unkind. "It's part of the package." He reminds her, masking his amusement at Clara's overdramatic comment.

She huffs loudly and shakes her head, almost dislodging the tightest braid. "The package should come with wine. Or at least a softer chair." She mutters under her breath. Her eyes glare at the ground as if it could change anything.

They turn a corner, approaching a stretch of windows overlooking the castle's inner garden. Clara catches a glimpse of students in the magical division, blue robes fluttering as they practice forming fireballs and tiny cyclones over the practice courts. She envies them. They get to learn, to try, to fail—she gets to listen to men with mustaches complain about grain tariffs for hours on end.

They reach the landing before the grand staircase. Two guards stand at the top step, each nodding with clipped precision. Down below, at the far end of the vast hall, the doors of the throne room stand closed, flanked by yet more guards and banners. The banners are new, Clara notices—golden lions on fields of green, the crest repainted with her ascension as heir.

She pauses, nerves prickling under the weight of the crown. Lue watches, waiting for her to compose herself.

"I can still run away," Clara whispers, her voice barely audible over the rustling of her silken gown. "We could disappear through the kitchens. I hear the fishermen's wharf is nice this time of year, with its salty breezes and colorful boats." She continued in a hushed tone that almost sounded serious.

Lue's mouth quirks slightly, a subtle hint of amusement. "I've been ordered to drag you to court if necessary, Your Highness," he replies in a tone both dutiful and gently teasing. He knew she wouldn't try to run, or at least he hoped she wouldn't try. It'd be a pain in the ass to catch her.

"Of course you have," she responds with a sigh before rolling her eyes and letting out another huff of disinterest. She braced herself as she took a moment to calm her nerves. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad, she hoped.

"Fine, all right, then. Onward." Her voice carried a note of determination as if she was steeling herself for the grand, gilded halls ahead.

Together, they descend the staircase in step, passing the respectful nods and secretive glances of every servant and courtier they encounter. Clara keeps her head high, heart pounding in time with her steps.

At the doors, the guards pull them open in a smooth, practiced motion. Inside, the throne room hums with subdued energy, courtiers already seated or standing along the walls, every eye waiting for the show to begin.

Clara sets her jaw, lifts her chin, and steps across the threshold. The performance is about to start.

The throne room is brighter than Clara expects, sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows and turning the flagstones into a checkerboard of gold and shadow. The banners overhead bear the lions of her house, rippling ever so slightly in the updrafts, their claws and manes stitched with actual gold thread. She imagines her ancestors would be mortified to see her standing there, hair braided like a schoolgirl, and shoes pinching at the toes.

At the far end of the chamber, King Noah sits on the central throne, a massive sculpture of white marble and pale wood. There are smaller thrones for the queen and her children, all in a neat, symmetrical row. Noah leans back, his hands folded in his lap, his expression a mix of boredom and vigilance. The lines on his face have deepened since Clara was a child, the familiar auburn mane now streaked liberally with iron gray. He wears his crown like a man born to it.

Two guards stand on either side of the dais, spears upright and expressions fixed. More ring the chamber at the doors and along the windows, scanning for threats or perhaps just trying to look menacing enough to dissuade misbehavior. At the king's right, the Royal Advisor is hunched over a massive ledger, pen scribbling notes even as his gaze flicks between the dais and the chamber floor. Clara can practically smell the ink and parchment from here.

Lue guides her across the flagstones, boots making the only sound in the hush. He stops at the foot of the steps and gives her a slight nod—permission to mount the dais. Clara ascends, aware of every eye in the chamber tracking her, even the ones pretending not to. Her palms are damp; she wipes them discreetly on her skirt as she moves to the empty throne at her father's left.

Noah acknowledges her presence with a single, measured glance, his eyes briefly meeting hers before returning to their previous focus. His voice, pitched so low that only she can catch the words, murmurs, "You're late."

Clara forces a smile onto her face, a practiced expression that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I wanted to make an entrance," she replies her tone light but with an edge of feigned nonchalance.

The corners of his mouth almost twitched as if fighting back a reluctant smile. "And you have," he concedes, a hint of amusement coloring his words. "I see Olivia survived another morning with you."

"Barely," Clara admits, her voice carrying a trace of humor overlaid with a subtle weariness as if the morning had been a battle she had only just managed to win.

King Noah lets the silence stretch, then says, "Sit, Clara." She obeys, perching on the cold, polished seat. There's an unspoken lesson in how he does not rise or greet her, in the way he continues reading over the Advisor's shoulder. He expects her to pay attention, to absorb by observation. In her old life, this would have been a game—to see how many rules she could bend before breaking one. Now, every slip is another mark against her in the silent tally of royal adequacy.

Clara's gaze drifts over the hall. Some of the courtiers stand, clustered in their peacock finery, whispering behind gloved hands. A few from the merchant guild look up with wary interest, assessing the new heir with all the delicacy of auctioneers examining a rare goat. From the gallery, an old dowager narrows her eyes and tilts her chin, a silent challenge that Clara neither accepts nor declines. She knows these people care about her only so far as she affects their incomes or their children's marriages.

The only one who seems remotely pleased is the Royal Advisor, whose hunched form now straightens, ready to announce the start of court. His hands hover over the massive ledger, itching to show off how thoroughly he's prepared for the day's business.

"Are you ready for this?" Noah says, voice so soft it barely disturbs the air.

"You make it sound like a battle." Clara glances at him, searching for a hint of sarcasm.

"Sometimes it is." He replied in a melancholy tone, his eyes met hers, ancient and sad.

Before Clara can respond, the Advisor steps forward with a thin, reedy cough. "Sire, the day's docket is assembled. Do you wish to begin?"

Noah gives a single nod.