The Six of Cups

The doors swing open again, this time with less ceremony but more gravity. The next petitioner enters alone, and the shift in the chamber is immediate. Every noble in the room straightens, and every merchant quiets. Even the guards seem to stand a little taller.

Zarek Starforge, Duke of the Northern Province, cuts a formidable figure. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wears a doublet of midnight blue over rawhide trousers, the star-shaped crest of his house gleaming on a clasp at his throat. His hair is shock-white, cropped close to the scalp, and his eyes are the cold, impossible blue of glacial ice.

Clara knows the rumors: that Starforge blood runs half-wolf, that no beast in the north can best them, that the line breeds their heirs for war and cunning. She sees nothing to contradict those stories.

Zarek crosses the chamber with measured, predatory grace. He stops at the base of the dais and bows—not low, but deep enough to show respect without groveling.

"Your Majesties," he intones. His voice is smooth, low, and carries perfectly in the vastness. "Thank you for hearing my petition."

Queen Zia signals to proceed, and the Advisor gives an approving nod.

Zarek straightens, locking eyes first with Noah, then Clara, then Zia. His gaze is dispassionate, coolly assessing—she suspects he could map out every weak spot in the court in less than a minute.

"I come on behalf of the north," Zarek spoke, each of his words falling like a hammer. "Our harvest was poor this year. Early frost, late blight. We will have enough to last through the New Year but not through spring. Worse still, the wilds beyond our border grow restless. Wolves, larger than hounds, have returned to the old forests. The yetis have come down from the Frostspire, and there are rumors of ice sprites haunting the lower passes. My people can endure the cold but not starvation nor a siege by the wild. I request grain, medical supplies, and two companies of men—preferably veterans of the southern campaigns—to hold the main passes until spring." He explained to the King and Queen.

The room ripples with murmurs. Clara watches her father's face—Noah is inscrutable, but the Advisor's quill is already scratching furiously.

Zia leans in, fingertips pressed together, and says, "Dire wolves and sprites? Those haven't been seen for decades."

Zarek's lips barely move. "Until this season, I'd have called such tales superstition. Now, I bury a new victim every week. The wild is changing." He responded a shadow cast over his eyes, grim and haunted.

Noah considers. "And what of your own mages? The northern province is renowned for its practitioners." He questioned as he studied Zarek's expressions.

Zarek's mouth tightened. "Half our mages perished in the plague five years ago. The rest are spread too thin to cover all three holds, let alone our villages." He responded, his fist clenching tight.

Clara frowned, and her brows knitted together. The north seemed worse than what she had been told. She felt empathy for the current situation Zarek found himself in.

"How many men do you command currently?" King Noah's voice cut through the chamber, sharp as a blade.

"Three hundred, if we count the conscripts. Barely enough to hold the keeps, let alone patrol the perilous woods," Zarek replied, his voice steady under the weight of the King's scrutiny.

"And you ask for how many?" The Advisor's quill scratched furiously against parchment, columns tallying in his ledger before the answer even left Zarekn's lips.

Zarek met Noah's piercing gaze without flinching. "Two companies, Sire. One hundred and sixty. Nothing less will suffice."

Noah leaned back, his eyes narrowing to slits of contemplation. "The southern campaigns drained our coffers. Our garrisons are stretched to the breaking point, and the merchant guilds dare more with each passing moon. How do I know you won't turn these men to further your own ambitions once spring blooms?" He questioned Zarek and studied him closely.

For the first time, Zarek's lips curled into a smile—sharp, feral, and utterly sincere. "Because if I fail to hold the passes, there will be nothing left to govern. The wild is a merciless beast, Your Majesty. It devours northmen and southern knights without distinction." He spoke in a grave tone, hinting at the possibilities. If the north fell, nothing would stand between the wilds and the kingdom of Sol.

A hush settles. Clara studied the Duke, searching for any sign of arrogance or duplicity. She finds only a hard, crystalline certainty as if he's already played out every outcome and accepted the cost.

"You have quite the reputation, Lord Zarek. Some say you're more wolf than man. Are you truly confident you can keep the wild at bay, even with reinforcements?" Queen Zia finally breaks the silence, her voice slicing through the heavy atmosphere like a finely honed blade.

Zarek bows his head slightly, a gesture that conveys both respect and contemplation. "We are what we must be, my Queen. If the wild demands a wolf, then a wolf I shall be." He responded to the Queen.

The air in the grand hall is charged with an electric tension; Clara could feel it prickling at her skin, sensing it's about more than just the petition at hand. The other nobles, seated along the long, ornate tables, watch intently, their eyes gleaming with hunger.

Noah leans forward, his fingers steepled like a cunning architect planning the foundation of a new empire. "Very well. The Crown will grant you the supplies and men you request—on condition that you open the north's archives to our scholars for the duration of the winter. It's time we learned exactly what stirs beyond the old borders."

"Agreed." Zarek's chin lifted a subtle yet defiant tilt.

The Advisor scribbles the terms in his book, then announces, "It is done. The men will muster in two weeks. The grain shipments will depart with the next caravan. May the gods favor your hold, Lord Zarek."

Zarek bows—fractionally deeper this time—then turns to leave. But before he does, his gaze lingers on Clara, sharp as a blade but unreadable. He spotted the ring on her finger, and his brows furrowed for just a fraction of a second.

For a moment, Clara feels as if she's glimpsing a force of nature in courtly clothes. She wonders what else the north might send her way if wolves and yetis are only the beginning.

The next petitioner is already waiting. But Clara's mind remains fixed on the Duke and the storm he promises to weather. Something tells her the worst of winter is yet to come.

The Advisor was preparing to summon the next case when Zarek turned back to face the King again.

"Sire," Zarek said, addressing Noah but glancing at Clara, "if I may petition on one last, more personal matter?"

King Noah, perhaps surprised but never letting it show, gives a single, permissive nod.

The entire room leans forward, hungry for intrigue. Even the Advisor raises an eyebrow, quill hovering above the page.

Zarek bows again, more courtly this time, and fixes his attention on Clara. His blue gaze sharpens to a point.

"This concerns the ring on Her Highness's left hand," Zarkak began. "It is an old matter but one of some importance to my house. The ring itself is rare—made of star iron, set with a piece of northern jade. My father gave it to me when I was a boy to one day present to my intended bride." Zarek explained.

There was an immediate flare of whispers in the gallery, a rustle of scandal and speculation.

A new wave of whispers swept through the chamber: some voices contemptuous, 'Northern superstition!', others greedy, 'A binding artifact?', many simply agog at fate's mischief.

Clara's eyes widened, and she glanced down at the ring, which seemed to feel like fire on her hand now. For a moment, she wonders if the thing is heating up from sheer embarrassment. It never crossed her mind that this ring belonged to a Duke, not any duke even, Zarek, the scariest of all of them.

"Explain." Noah's gaze narrowed.

"As a child, I traveled with my family to the capital for a royal audience. I lost the ring here, in this very castle. I believed it was gone forever—until I saw it on the Princess's hand." Zarek explained with a stern voice, speaking only the truth.

Queen Zia's lips curled in interest. Clara, for her part, felt the blood drain from her face.

"Clara?" Noah looks at his daughter, then at the ring.

Clara tried to summon the words, and she hesitated for a moment. "I uh… F-Found it in a bird's nest while exploring, I had no idea…" Clara explained awkwardly, waving both her hands. She wasn't going to mention the part where she was on the castle roof. "I can return the ring, but it's been stuck…" Clara offered quickly and smiled, though her smile did not reach her eyes.

Zarek gives a humorless chuckle. "You cannot. The ring is enchanted, Your Majesty. Starforge rings bind to the wearer. They were once a way to ensure loyalty between houses, though, in practice, they cause more trouble than peace." He explained, casting a glance at King Noah.

King Noah is silent for a beat. "And what happens if one tries to remove it?" He asked, his brows furrowing.

"You would need to cut off the finger, Sire. The ring will not allow itself to be parted otherwise." Zarek responded straightforwardly.

Clara's jaw drops. "You're joking." She muttered, her shoulders going slack.

"I assure you, I am not," Zarek replied. There was no flicker of amusement in his voice. He was serious.

The room explodes in low, incredulous murmurs.

Queen Zia studied Zarek, then Clara, then the ring itself. "And what is the meaning of such a bond in your tradition?" Zia asked as she gazed down at Zarek.

"In the old days, it was a promise. A pact between houses, sealed by blood and will. The ring marks the wearer as the intended of House Starforge—at least, until a proper betrothal or the ring's return." Zarek's answer was plain.

Clara stared at her hand as if it might detach and scuttle away. Lue was tense from where he stood guard. He was staring at the Duke intensely.

Queen Zia's eyes are alight with both mischief and calculation. "Perhaps the gods have a sense of humor." She raised a hand to her mouth.

King Noah, for once, looked genuinely unsettled. "This was not foreseen." He muttered, and another sigh escaped his lips.

Zarek bowed his head in apology. "It is not my intention to claim your daughter, Sire. Only to clarify the ring's meaning and to ask that, at your convenience, I be allowed to retrieve it. For the sake of tradition." He spoke in an even tone.

Noah stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment before responding: "We shall discuss this further—in private." Then, turning so only family could hear: "After we survive today."

Clara gave another futile tug at the ring. "I'd rather keep my pinky," She muttered. It burned against her skin now—a constant reminder that nothing ever comes free in Sol's halls; every gift is also a debt waiting for payment.

As the tension in the room thickened, Zarek nodded respectfully to King Noah before stepping back, allowing the royal family to confer in private. Clara's heart pounded in her chest as she tried to make sense of the situation. The weight of the ring on her finger felt heavier with each passing moment, its significance sinking in deeper.