The Six of Cups

The formal ball loomed over the castle like a distant thunderhead—inevitable, electric, promising spectacle and disaster in equal measure. For now, the storm brewed quietly in Clara's bedchamber, where Olivia and Jewel had undertaken the gargantuan task of dressing the royal heir for public display.

It was a project that had already consumed the better part of an hour, leaving the princess more trussed and trampled than any sacrificial lamb.

"Please don't slouch, Your Highness," Olivia intoned, not for the first time, as she wrangled Clara into an undergown so stiff it could have doubled as siege equipment. Her movements were precise and economical, betraying years of service and a personal vendetta against unruly corsetry. "If you do, the boning will dig into your ribs and I shall be blamed for it." She warned with a sigh.

Jewel, who was considerably less reserved in her affections and opinions, snickered as she circled with a ribbon the color of ripe plums. "If you slouch hard enough, maybe it'll snap and put you out of your misery." She commented as another giggle escaped her lips.

Clara grinned at that, her fingers plucking the bedsheet restlessly. "If only. I'd haunt this castle forever just to see your faces when the wind whistles through these corridors at night." She responded, and the idea of becoming a ghost was not a bad idea in her mind at this point.

"I'd like to see you try," Jewel countered, slipping the ribbon around Clara's waist with expert speed and a particular creative menace. "You couldn't even sneak a midnight snack last week without knocking over the honey jar. Terrifying, truly." She giggled again.

Olivia made a noise like a very patient, very exhausted bird. "Enough," she said, with the finality of a guillotine. "We have to finish before sunset, or the Queen will be here to supervise herself, and then we'll all wish for a haunting." She warned, though Olivia was glad Clara was at least smiling, even if the discussion was dreadful.

Clara stilled at Olivia's warning and mention of her mother. The prospect of facing Queen Zia in full ceremonial mode was enough to make the ball seem, momentarily, like the lesser evil.

"Shoulders back," Olivia commanded, slipping the overdress down with a smooth, practiced flourish. The gown was a monstrosity of gold and emerald silk, the colors so bright that Clara felt she'd be mistaken for a procession banner if she stood still in a breeze. It shimmered when she moved, every thread stitched with purpose and, most likely, a mild curse.

Jewel fussed with the sleeves, then fluffed the layers at the hem, her mouth scrunched in concentration. "If you bend at the knees and step sideways, you can still run in these," she murmured, half to herself, half to Clara.

"Noted," Clara replied, then squirmed as Olivia cinched her waist tighter still. The ring on her finger dug in with new insistence, and she hissed, clutching her left hand.

Jewel was on it in an instant. "Still stuck?" she asked, with a tone that mingled sympathy and barely concealed excitement.

Clara held her hand up, palm out, and waggled her finger. The ring shone under the candlelight, stubborn as ever. "I tried every trick you mentioned. Soap, butter, ice. At this point, I think it's feeding off my blood like a tick."

"It does look like it's growing," Olivia observed, her voice cool. "Have you measured your finger recently?"

"I'll pass, thanks," Clara said. The thought of the ring swelling up to envelop her whole hand was too vivid for comfort.

Jewel tilted her head, eyeing the artifact. "You could hide it with gloves," she suggested, "but everyone would just ask about the gloves."

"Let them," Clara said, her jaw set. "I'd rather answer idiotic questions than have anyone think I'm happy about this betrothal farce."

Olivia's eyes flicked up, calculating. "Then you'll need a plan, Your Highness. The Queen expects you to make a favorable impression tonight." She began pinning Clara's hair into a mass of carefully arranged curls, each secured with a tiny emerald pin.

Clara met her gaze in the mirror, determination sparking in her green eyes. "I have a plan. I'm going to scare every suitor so badly they'll beg to be reassigned to the farthest province before the night's over." She explained her plan simply. If there were no suitors, then she would be free of any shackles, at least in terms of marriage. She knew the longer she took to choose, the more she'd be pressed. Plus, there was the whole issue with the ring… Zarek said he wasn't trying to plant a claim, but her father had told her that Zarek was now in the running as a suitor. If she didn't pick him, then she might need to lose a finger, a thought that made her wince.

"You could start with Lord Brightshield. I heard he fainted at the sight of a paper cut in his youth." Jewel giggled, approving.

Clara filed that away as ammunition. "Any other suggestions?" She asked, making a mental list of anything she could use to scare the noble slime off.

"Be boring," Olivia advised, lips pursed. "If you cannot be intimidating, be tedious. The truly ambitious will flee." She suggested gently. It was much tamer than anything Jewel might suggest. Olivia didn't wish for Clara to cause too big of a scene.

Jewel was more pragmatic. "Spill your drink on their lap. Or talk about digestion at supper. Men hate that." She suggested with a wicked grin.

Clara laughed, the sound echoing off the high plaster ceiling. "Noted," she said. "Now, will one of you please loosen this corset before I pass out and ruin all your hard work?" She gasped out with barely a breath.

Olivia relented, tugging the ties just enough to allow Clara a shallow breath. "You're not just scaring them off," she said, voice softening. "You're testing their mettle. You need someone who won't be frightened by you." She pointed out. The King's role was crucial, especially since some of the other empires around them weren't very open-minded to a Woman leading. Sol was a bit more lenient, but Clara could rule by herself and earn the respect of her people; however, she would not stand a chance alone against the more strict nations.

Clara mulled that over. "I guess… Though I'd rather not get married," Clara spoke bluntly, the crown itself had plenty of chains that came with it. A man telling her what to do just added to its complexity. She was quite happy being single, so that they would be competing not only with each other, but also with herself.

Jewel finished with the hair, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You look like a queen already," she said.

"Don't say that," Clara replied, unable to suppress a shudder. "That's the most terrifying thing I've heard all day." She muttered under her breath.

A knock at the door punctuated the moment. Olivia went rigid, then moved to open it, her expression composed.

Lue stood in the corridor, every inch the knight in freshly burnished armor, his face as unreadable as a locked chest. "Your Highness. The Queen requests your presence before the receiving line." He spoke in a rigid and formal tone.

Clara nodded, gathering her nerves. Olivia and Jewel fussed with her skirt and train, making last-minute adjustments, then stepped back. She took a moment at the mirror, studying her reflection. The dress was perfect, every seam a testament to the tireless skill of her attendants. Her hair framed her face like a crown of copper, tamed for the moment into something regal. But the eyes—her eyes—were wild, restless, ready.

"Let's see which of these pompous lords breaks first," she said, mostly to herself.

Lue's lips twitched, just once, as if he'd heard. He offered his arm, which she took with a grace born of years of practice.

Olivia bowed, Jewel curtseyed, and Clara swept from the room, gold and green and rebellion all at once.

They moved down the corridor in silence, Lue's pace measured to hers. Only when they reached the grand staircase did he speak, low and private: "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he said.

Clara squeezed his arm, just a little. "That's the plan," she replied.

The doors at the base of the stairs loomed, guards already in place. Lue peeled off, as protocol demanded, leaving Clara to descend alone.

She paused at the landing, gathering herself. The hall below was already filled with light, music, and the buzz of anticipation. She felt the ring, the dress, the pressure of every gaze that would soon be fixed on her.

She breathed out, slow and steady.

Then she stepped forward, chin high, and made her entrance.