The Six of Cups

Duke Zarek Starforge's footfalls landed crisp on the castle's ancient stone, each echo rising, lingering, then dying in the dim silence. The corridor here was colder, the air still as a tomb. Torches flickered at wide intervals, casting stretched shadows up the columns and over the bare walls. Sol's gold rarely reached these parts—this was a hall for politics, not spectacle.

The northern lord had not bothered to change his attire. He wore the same midnight blue doublet as in court, though now it seemed to absorb rather than reflect the scant light, his shoulders shadowed by a wolfskin cloak. His boots were spattered with road salt from his journey; he made no attempt to brush them clean before entering the council chamber.

The doors were half-open, as if the king had expected him early. Zarek paused at the threshold, then stepped inside.

King Noah sat at the table's head. The king wore no crown here, only a black tunic. The light in the room came from wall mantels placed deliberately behind Noah's chair, so that any guest saw the king's face lit, their own always in shadow. It was an old trick, but effective.

Zarek crossed the room and stopped three paces short, bowing just low enough to acknowledge the king's position, no more, no less. "Your Majesty," he said, voice neither loud nor soft, but ideally suited for these acoustics.

Noah gestured to the seat at his left. The king's face was sharp and drawn, lines etched deep at the corners of his mouth. "Duke Starforge," he said. "Sit." The tone was a command, not an invitation.

Zarek took the seat. The chair was cold, the stone biting through his trousers, but he gave no sign of discomfort.

Noah steepled his fingers atop the table. Spread before him were several thick documents, their wax seals broken, their ribbons marking places of interest. One lay open, its top page densely inscribed and bearing the red-and-white seal of House Starforge. Zarek recognized it instantly: the contract for his family's old promise ring.

Noah let the silence hang. Then, "I assume you know why I summoned you here."

"I have a reasonable guess," Zarek replied. His eyes flicked briefly to the contract, then returned to the king. "I am prepared to answer whatever is required."

"You do not seem surprised," Noah responded; his gaze was assessing and measuring.

"My father trained me for surprises. But I prefer clarity." Zarek folded his hands neatly on the table, knuckles lined up, fingers unmoving.

"Clarity, then," said Noah. He pushed the contract toward Zarek. "This matter with my daughter is inconvenient. It was not the court's intent to embroil the royal house with yours by accident or by ancient magic. The ring—does it truly bind?" He questioned as he gestured to the contract.

Zarek did not blink. "If tradition holds, the bond is complete the moment the ring is donned. I'm told attempts to sever it are… unpleasant." His tone was flat, with no hint of threat. Only fact.

The king's mouth twitched. "Some would say you had much to gain by forcing the issue." He commented. Magically binding like this was not something even his top mages could undo. Though it was an accident on his daughter's part, traditions were meant to be followed even if it made things difficult.

"Some would." Zarek let the implication linger, then added, "But I have no interest in compulsion. Not where the future of two provinces is concerned."

"And what is your interest, then?" Noah sat back, studying him.

Zarek measured his response. The truth was, he hadn't expected the ring to be found at all, let alone to reappear on the hand of a princess, especially this princess. But now that fate had played its hand, he had no intention of folding.

"Stability for my people. Prosperity for the north. And, if I may be plain, an end to the cycle of famine and blight that has plagued our lands since the last war." Zarek met Noah's eyes, unflinching. "Your daughter is clever and, by all accounts, less cruel than your sons. The north could do far worse." He added.

A silence. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic drip from a condensation pipe somewhere behind the wall.

"You speak openly," Noah said at last. "I expected more obfuscation." He pointed out with a hint of approval in his voice.

Zarek allowed himself the thinnest shadow of a smile. "There is little use for lies in the north. The wind strips them away." His voice was firm with honesty.

Noah let out a low, rough chuckle, but it held no warmth. He tapped the contract. "This is a relic of a different era. I had it brought from the vaults the moment your claim was made. I find the practice barbaric." He gestured to the contract again, which was buried deep in the archives of the castle. It was one of the few documents he had on the north.

Zarek inclined his head. "So do I. I would not have revived it, had there been a choice." He didn't add that his people had a long memory for promises, and an even longer one for betrayal.

"Do you seek the throne?" Noah asked bluntly.

Zarek's stillness was absolute. "I seek a future in which my province is not bled dry by war and taxation. I have no ambition for your throne, only the means to ensure my people's survival." He responded after a moment of thought.

Noah seemed to relax, fractionally. "And you expect me to believe you?" He asked, raising a single eyebrow. With the slimy nobles he has dealt with daily, it was hard to believe a man was not after power for himself.

"I expect you to do what is necessary to keep the realm intact. That is what I would do, in your place," Zarek's voice was unflinching.

Noah stared at him for a long moment, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. "My daughter is stubborn. She does not take kindly to being manipulated." He mentioned, his tone carrying years of experience beneath. For as long as he could recall, Clara had been unruly.

"Neither do I," Zarek replied, the corners of his mouth not moving, but something in his eyes shifting—an ember catching in the cold blue.

Another beat of silence. Then Noah nodded, just once. "Very well. Here are the terms." He fanned out a set of parchment leaves, each stamped with the wax seal of the royal house.

Zarek listened, eyes never leaving the king's. He read every inflection, every hesitation. The negotiations had begun.

Noah rose with a grunt, circled behind his chair, and strolled to the hearth. The fire here was only half-lit, throwing more shadow than heat, but he stood over it as if interrogating the embers. His hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, he studied the flames as though they might offer a strategy he hadn't yet considered.

Zarek stayed seated, his back straight, hands folded as before. He could sense the shifting temperature of the room; this was the part of the ritual where the king displayed power by changing the field of play.

Noah broke the silence. "The north is dying," he said, staring at the fire. "I have seen the reports. Frost in the high fields, rot in the low. Wolves at the borders. Even the ley lines are thinning, if the mages are to be believed." The words were heavy, delivered as if each were another stone on a burden already immense.

Zarek responded without hesitation. "My people are starving, Sire. This year, two whole villages were abandoned. The remainder—too proud to beg, too desperate to hope." He kept his tone clinical, but the facts themselves stung.

"And you think a princess and a band of soldiers will solve it?" Noah turned, finally, and gave Zarek a look sharp enough to flay skin.

"I think," Zarek replied, "that your daughter is not just a princess. She is the heir. And if I can prove my loyalty to her—" he chose his words carefully "—then the court's support for northern relief will not falter, even when the southern lords grow restless." He paused, letting the implication settle. "And when the time comes for a new ruler to be crowned, the north will stand beside her, not against her."

Noah watched him, eyes narrowed. He retrieved a decanter from a high shelf, poured two fingers of amber into each of two crystal tumblers, and set one before Zarek with a heavy clink. Then, he remained standing, glass in hand. "You are too clever for your own good," Noah said, but there was a faint trace of something like admiration in his voice.

Zarek accepted the drink. He did not sip; instead, he let the glass rest, its cold surface an anchor. "It is not cleverness, Sire. It is survival." He spoke bluntly.

The king's laugh was short and brutal. "A wolf's instinct." He took a long swallow, then leaned his hip against the edge of the hearth. "I suppose that's why your line has lasted so long."

There was a subtle shift in the room, the contest of power giving way to a shared understanding. Noah regarded the northern lord for a long moment, then asked, "Do you even want her? Or is she just another duty?" He asked seriously, most who were coming for her hand in marriage were not coming for her, but for the power that came with it. This was the reason why he and his wife decided to filter the suitors.

Zarek considered, not feigning emotion he didn't feel. "I do not know her. But I respect what she is." He tilted his head, voice quiet. "And there are worse fates, for both of us, than an alliance born of necessity."

Noah nodded, as if he'd expected the answer. He finished his drink, then set the glass down with a gentle finality.

"She is not an easy daughter. Willful as the northern winds," Noah said, turning his gaze back to the fire. "She will fight you, and she will not stop until she wins." The words were not a warning, but a prediction—perhaps even a challenge.

"I have lived with northern winds all my life. They are harsh, but they shape the mountain." Zarek's lips quirked, a rare concession to humor.

Noah's mouth bent into a rueful smile, then straightened. "If you harm her—"

"I won't," Zarek interrupted, voice cutting through. He set the untouched drink aside. "That is not my nature."

"I am not blind to what this will look like, to the court. There are other houses, other lords, who have waited years for a chance at her hand. If I back your claim, they will see it as a slight. An insult, even." Noah's gaze lingered on the glass, then on Zarek himself, weighing the truth of it. 

Zarek spread his hands, palms up. "They can challenge me, if they wish. I have never hidden from a duel, political or otherwise." He responded confidently. He had faced much more intimidating foes than men in tights.

The king's eyebrows arched, and for a moment he looked every inch the seasoned monarch, the man who had bent a dozen would-be rebels to his will. "You may regret that offer, Lord Starforge. The south does not fight fair."

"Neither does the north," Zarek said, voice low and certain.

There was a pause, filled by the slow, crumbling sound of wood burning down to coal. Then, with a finality that brooked no further discussion, Noah pushed away from the hearth and returned to his chair. He did not sit, but rather placed his hands on the back of the chair, looming over the table.

"In three days' time, we will announce the arrangement. There will be resistance, perhaps even violence. You will face your rivals, and you will face my daughter. If you survive both, I will honor the bond," Noah's voice was measured, but there was iron beneath.

"Understood," Zarek nodded once.

"You should prepare. The games will begin at sunrise. I suggest you rest," Noah straightened, shoulders rolling, and finally, finally, sat. He reached for the second glass, but did not drink.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Zarek inclined his head.

"You may go," The king waved a hand, dismissive but not unkind.

Zarek nodded once more and left the room with the same measured stride with which he'd entered. He paused outside, allowing himself a moment to breathe. The corridor was colder than before, but the air tasted cleaner. His choice had been made; for his people's future, he would play these games.

Behind him, the king remained, still as the mountain, watching the fire die down to embers.